Ad Aeturnum
by Little Knight Mik
Summary: In victory you are a legend. In death you are a memory. In the Games you walk among the ranks of the eternal. [Partial]
1. The Beginning of the End

**In case it isn't obvious from the dialogue/implications, this prologue takes place immediately after _this_ Hunger Games concludes ^^ But there won't be spoilers for who wins, just the relief of it finally being over for everyone in the staff!**

* * *

 **00 - The Beginning of the End**

"Is it…" They all stared at the screens in silence. "Is it over…?"

She stared at the victor—the latest in a long line of winners—on the screen with her jaw slightly dropped. Malvolia couldn't believe how hard her heart with hammering in her chest, how much pain was in her enlarged belly as she supported it with one of her hands. Her water had broken an hour ago, but she couldn't afford to leave at such a pivotal moment in the Hunger Games. She had to see it through to the end.

The Eighty-Fifth Hunger Games was finally over.

Caesar, making his final announcement of the Games before his retirement, introduced Panem to their newest victor. Everyone in the room, every Gamemaker and expert, released relieved breaths. They'd all been holding it in, uncertain of what was happening in front of them.

Beside her was Lola Amos, the very young, very new member of staff for the annual event, stared at Malvolia with wide eyes. Her lavender hair was almost free of its braid, the stress and hype of the final three affecting her just as much as anyone else.

"This is it," Lola said weakly. "After this, I take over."

Malvolia smiled down at her. After the events of the former President's assassination, everyone was so nervous about the new structures and responsibilities. But now it was over and done with, and they could all release the tension in their shoulders. Even Lola, who had only shadowed everyone to get a feel for the job.

"You won't have as much pressure as the rest of us did," Malvolia reassured her. Lola nodded. She adjusted her jacket and looked down at the mess at Malvolia's feet.

"Should we go to the infirmary?"

Malvolia breathed out a laugh. With all the stress she'd gone through, she was surprised to think to herself that she was _relieved_ to be able to give birth now. She didn't need to force it in for just five minutes more. "That's a good idea."

"The calls are coming in!" One of the other Gamemakers was cheering at his chair. "Holy crap, we actually did it! Ms. Nero, look at these search results—"

"Email them to me," Malvolia called over her shoulder. "I don't think I can keep Little One at bay much longer."

He waved her off as another Gamemaker flew to his side to view the search results.

"God damn," they said. "It's like everyone stopped mourning the last President and started celebrating this kid."

As Malvolia left the room with Lola, her pants feeling awkward and damp even after all the time she'd given them to dry, she smiled to herself. Making everyone forget Corialanus was exactly what they'd needed to do, and they'd done it with flying colours. The chatter behind her was confirmation of that—one intern even remarked that he'd forgotten about the former President entirely as they monitored the Games.

And to think it all took two weeks. Two weeks of preparation for the arena. Two weeks of showcasing tributes and judging them one by one. _Two weeks in the arena_.

Two weeks, and they'd managed to catch the attention of every single citizen of Panem.

The small phone in her pocket began to vibrate, forcing Malvolia to come to a halt with a panic. Only Celestia had the number for it, and if she was calling now then something must've gone wrong.

Lola watched her with wide eyes again as she accepted the call and greeted her President with a worried, "Did we choose the right one?"

There was silence on the other end, Celestia almost inaudible outside of her soft, almost whimpering breaths. Was she crying? Did she choose the wrong one?

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, of the pain in her belly, Celestia let out a small huff of a laugh.

" _Do you think Grandpa would be proud of me?_ " There was a slight waver in her voice, a sign that she was well and truly crying. Malvolia hadn't seen, let alone heard, the woman cry in ten years—even after Corialanus's death Celestia was calm and composed.

It made the excitement already coursing through her swell into pride.

"He'd want an encore, Celly," Malvolia declared.

Celestia laughed weakly, amused by the reply. It was never in Corialanus's nature to want encores of Hunger Games, but this was the truth. With how well they'd performed their first ever Hunger Games together, the man would crawl out of his grave and personally tell his granddaughter how proud he was.

(As morbid as the image was, Malvolia realised, it wasn't far from the truth. Corialanus adored Celestia, more than his own children and other grandchildren.)

" _Then how about we give him a show for next year?_ "

"I would be honoured, President Snow."

She smiled despite the urgency she felt, the contractions that were starting to set in. A new generation of Hunger Games was afoot, bigger and better than the last.

 _And all it took was two weeks_.

* * *

 **Welcome to my partial, Ad Aeturnum! This fic will serve as a prequel of sorts to Ad Mortem/Ad Meliora, and reveal a bit about Malvolia Nero and Celestia Snow in their first year in power/as Head Gamemaker. Since this is a partial, I should warn you all that only one of my tributes will win - but that doesn't mean the sixteen others sent in won't get a piece of the limelight. Every tribute will get a POV up until the arena launch, and any other will be based on who survives the bloodbath.**

 **If this isn't your cup of tea, then I hope you at least stay to read and see where this goes! If it is, then you'll find the form for Ad Aeturnum and the link for its blog at the top of my profile! Brief information will be in the form's opening section, as well as which Districts will be immediately available. And if you want to send an escort, there's a form link underneath the link to the tribute form!**

 **I hope to hear from some of you soon!**


	2. The Victorious

**Heyo! We've got the first mentor chapter for Ad Aeturnum, where we take a look at the mentors who benefited in one way or another from their victory. You can find faceclaims and info on them at the blog, and I'd like to give a big thank you to** _AmericanPi_ **for letting me use Tria as the D1 mentor (and for Aeliana, who appears in Johanna's section).**

* * *

 **01 - The Victorious**

 **Tria Dougherty, 70, District 1**

"Ms. Dougherty," Cadmus laughed. "You are truly a gift to humanity."

Tria sipped at her wine with a smile. "I wouldn't go that far, Mr. Dante."

The other guests all laughed along with their host, clinking glasses and continuing their feast. The main course had finished, dessert well by its way out by now. Tria set down her wine and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Beside her, her daughter Wisdom dabbed at her lips with her napkin.

"I've never known anyone to have such wit whilst still holding themselves so nobly," Cadmus went on. Tria just smiled sweetly at him. "And would young Mrs. Dougherty have such a sense of humour as well?"

Wiz just smiled innocently. Tria would admit that over the generations, the Dougherty girls had gotten more and more daring with their humour. Her granddaughter didn't seem to follow that tradition, though Wisdom made up for it plenty.

"Perhaps I should invite Mr. Dante to one of my dinner parties in One to see for himself," Wiz said coyly. She folded her napkin and set it aside. It was immediately collected by a waiter and replaced with a new one. "Ray sells the most beautiful jewellery after dessert. You might find something that will please Mrs. Dante, I'll bet."

The woman in question chortled and nudged her husband. "You heard the woman, dear," Lia teased. "Spoil me."

Cadmus just shook his head with a smile while his guests chuckled amongst themselves.

Dinners like this were common, though not many of them came so close to the Games. Tria tried to reason why Cadmus would hold it so late, but there really weren't many options to pick from—genuine or ulterior alike. With the anniversary of Corialanus's death so close, Tria could only hope the man had called both Doughertys to reminisce about the former President. They already had a lot on their plates preparing volunteers, after all. Preparing the next Dougherty victor.

Dessert came out, varying platters presented to each and every one of them. While Tria was presented with a very quaint, simple tiramisu, Wiz received a bright, tempting creme caramel. Neither could complain—by this point Cadmus remembered the desserts they enjoyed best.

Lia dug into her miniature trifle as she asked Wiz, "So, are any of yours competing this year?"

Tria feigned ignorance, taking a bite of her tiramisu and waiting for Wiz to answer. The woman in question just smiled around her spoon, swallowing her taste of the creme caramel before answering.

"You know we can't plan tributes ahead of time," she said in a cheerful tone. "That'd imply we're training them. And training children to fight is illegal."

Lia let out a hum of understanding. "Of course, of course," she agreed. "Then who would you say has the highest chances of being 'reaped', hm?"

A better question. Trai jumped back in. "Zelda is eighteen," she replied. "I would say she has the highest 'chance'."

Talks and euphemisms like this were just formalities. Ways to bat their eyelashes at the law and prove they never admitted to anything. Tria used to compare it to the euphemisms some victors used for morphling, though now she sees it in a much more useful light. It got the people's hopes up without outright saying anything, giving them time to live up to those expectations and wow everyone. She'd learned about it when she'd volunteered to mentor Wiz, when her former mentor had suggested not admitting to what everyone else already knew.

It was avoidant, for sure, but it kept up appearances. A victor needed to be the ideal person to strive to be, and illegal training was _certainly_ not what people should do. (Or so she told the Capitol with each and every interview probing her for details.)

"And will one of you mentor?" Cadmus spoke with his mouth full, eliciting a scowl from Tria. The moment he saw it, he covered his mouth with his hand and mumbled, "Sorry, Ms. Dougherty."

"Remember your manners next time, Mr. Dante," was all Tria said in return.

"Mother and I are still deciding who should do it this year," Wiz told him. "Hands-on experience does wonders, but I still have much to learn in terms of passing on knowledge."

Everyone else was close to finishing their desserts. Tria and Wiz were the only ones not to shove the food down their throats like animals. Sometimes she wondered how such a high society like the Capitol developed such piggish habits. It was bad enough they purged themselves so they could eat even more.

"I'm sure you'd do wonderfully, Mrs. Dougherty," Lia said. There was genuine support in her voice, a support that wasn't like the greed of gamblers who wanted to win a pre-Games bet over mentors.

And Wiz heard it too. She nodded in thanks to Lia and finished off her dessert, Tria close behind as conversation moved on.

All nights had to come to an end at some point, and eventually the Peacekeepers that escorted them to the mansion led them back to their train. Both Lia and Wiz sank into the chairs of the dining cart, releasing tired breaths.

Nights like these were exhausting, but this was a small price to pay for the luxuries of victory.

"Are you certain you still want to wait?" Tria asked as the train began to move. Wiz nodded, sipped at the water a Peacekeeper had fetched for her.

"You did an extraordinary job when I volunteered," she decided. "I'll just take notes on what you use for Zelda this time and take the next Dougherty."

At least she wasn't being lazy about it. Tria hummed in agreement, satisfied with the plan. With her at the helm, there was no doubt about another Dougherty victory.

* * *

 **Hippolyta Seville, 50, District 2**

No, this dress wouldn't do either.

Hippolyta threw it to the side with a growl. This was the one thing she hated about being chosen to mentor: Finding something appropriate to wear. Every year appearances became more and more important, and the natural human ageing process didn't help keep said appearances up.

"Ares!" She dug through the closet desperately. "Ares, some help!"

Her son came bounding into the room, his towel wrapped hastily around his waist and half of his face covered in shaving cream. Down the hall, the shower loudly continued to run and billow out steam through the open door.

"What's wrong?" Ares wheezed. Hippolyta scrunched up her face and pulled another dress out from her closet.

"Mommy's conflicted," she whined.

The groan that escaped Ares was monumental, the speed that his hand flew up to his forehead legendary.

"You couldn't wait till I was done to help?" he complained.

"It's urgent."

Ares scoffed. As he left for the bathroom again, he grumbled, "So's my manscaping."

Hippolyta continued on with her search as though he'd never said anything. Even after thirty years of raising and teaching that man proper manners, he still gave his mother lip at times. She'd given up on yelling at him for it—boy inherited her argumentative nature, much to her chagrin.

Hippolyta pulled one of her more casual dresses and frowned. Pockets probably wouldn't fly well with the public, even if they were functional and useful. She was just about to chuck it over her shoulder when her phone, buried under the pile of clothes on her bed, chimed loudly.

Who on earth was calling her _now_?

She put it on speaker and set it atop her dresser, addressing the caller with a gruff, "What do you want?"

" _Just checking in with you, Mrs. Seville!_ " the cheery voice came through. Hippolyta rolled her eyes. Great, the escort's assistant was calling her. " _Still mentoring this year?_ "

"If I step down," Hippolyta growled, " _you'll know_."

" _Just following protocol, ma'am. I trust you have everything prepared?_ "

"Why do you want to know?"

" _Approval ratings for the last mentor's attire were significantly lower than most,_ " the assistant reported with that annoyingly cheerful tone. " _Mr. LeBlanc and I just want to make certain they don't drop further this year_."

Hippolyta scrunched up her face and softly mimicked the woman with a childish tone. To say she went unheard would be a lie, but thankfully the assistant didn't confront her about it. It was too early in the morning to be getting involved in arguments, even if Hippolyta was the cause of them all.

"I'll see you at the reaping," Hippolyta said pointedly. Before she could be asked once again if she had something organised, she hung up the phone and threw it back onto the bed.

This time when Ares came back into the room, he was at least semi-dressed and clean shaven. He sighed at his mother, a dry, "You really should be nicer to the escort teams," sent her way. Hippolyta scoffed and threw the pocket dress onto the bed. It smothered her phone as it began to ring again.

"So what's the problem?" Ares sighed. He leaned against the closet door with a frown. "You can't seriously just be upset over what to wear."

"I am," Hippolyta growled. Her patience over this whole issue was really wearing thin after that call. "They want me to make sure I don't get lower approval ratings than the last one."

Ares scrunched up his face. "Go in your pyjamas and spite them."

"Sweetie. No."

"Then does it have to be a _dress_?" Ares lightly pushed his mother aside, still leaving her with enough of a view to see what he began to pull out. "The blouse with the frills works pretty well, and your black suit is professional enough."

"What if it's too plain?" Hippolyta held the jacket of the suit next to the blouse, comparing the high, frilly collar to the almost polished fabric of the jacket. "All the last one wore was a suit—"

"Then own it," he groaned. "I don't know if you've noticed, Mom, but everyone actually loves your whole 'cold-hearted analyst' shtick. Put on a pair of sunglasses and don't smile at all, and they'll probably melt with joy or whatever."

She squinted at the clothes. He wasn't wrong about it all, but it wasn't a shtick. Hippolyta genuinely shut herself off from others once more than a dozen eyes were on her. She forced herself to have tunnel vision and focus on what was in front of her, operating on autopilot. It just wasn't a "shtick".

But she knew Ares meant well when he called it that. He'd never grown up seeing his mother go into Games-mode. He knew her the way others didn't.

So with a heavy sigh and a soft smile, she took the clothes and planted a kiss on Ares's cheek. "You're a lifesaver, sweetie."

Ares smiled proudly at her. "I know."

* * *

 **Flake Banner, 59, District 4**

Little Aggie was a lot bigger than he remembered. It hadn't been that long since he last visited the Capitol, had it? Flake felt like he'd missed a pivotal point in her life, even if it'd only been a year.

But still, he was happy to see the children again.

Brigid twirled on the spot, showing off the dress her mother had made for her birthday. Bright red like her hair, frilly and making her stand out more than usual. Flake smiled down at her.

"It's very pretty!" he complimented. Brigid posed proudly, grinning to the other girls almost smugly.

"Poppy Flake said my dress is _pretty_!" she bragged. The other girls pouted and complained. Soon Flake was being crowded by them all, demanding to know who had the prettiest dress and which one he liked better. Flake was overwhelmed, unable to convince them that they _all_ had pretty dresses and that he couldn't possibly choose a favourite among his honorary grandchildren.

But it wasn't good enough for the horde of seven-year-olds. _Everyone_ said that, according to them, and it only furthered their questions and demands. Soon Flake was being dragged left and right, no longer able to say this was a safe outing with no risk of being torn in half. Here he was, worried about the people his own age, when it was really the pre-teens and munchkins he had to fear.

"I mean it, girls!" he insisted. "You all look lovely!"

"But I'm the best, right?"

"Shut up, Brigid!"

"You made Aggie upset."

"Aren't you popular?"

Flake's head snapped up to the decidedly much more grown up voice beside him. It wasn't often that he'd run into other victors at events like this—they tended to like their space, which Flake related to—but it happened at times. Three years ago he'd met a very drunk, very depressed Haymitch Abernathy. A decade ago it had been Mags from Four, though she'd accompanied him after finding out someone they both knew had passed. Flake still counted it as a chance, since neither knew they had a mutual friend.

So he was both mildly surprised and unsurprised to see Finnick Odair next to him. Charming as ever and looking just a tad frazzled, he smiled down at the kids and gave them a short wave hello.

To say the girls went wild was an understatement.

Flake was freed from the dispute, their attentions now on Finnick as they clambered around the man and tried to grab at his coat. Flake had never met Finnick personally, spending more time in the Capitol than he did in Four at the time Finnick competed, but there was a sort of respect both shared for each other. Flake found it admirable that Finnick was such a young victor, that he'd started a trend with tridents in Four; the way Finnick bowed his head slightly and bent his back as though to kneel before Flake suggested respect, though with how anti-social some victors became Flake had to worry at times whether it was just Finnick's way of greeting or genuine respect.

He dusted off his pants and let out an exhausted breath. He loved the kids, truly, but there were just more and more to keep up with every year. Flake wondered if the Capitol would reproduce as much as it did now if they were subject to the Hunger Games every year. Probably, he thought grimly.

With the children distracted Flake had a chance to steal some finger food, replenish his energy and mingle with the other adults some more. He hadn't just come to this party to chat with the children—well, as much as he enjoyed it from a parental standpoint it still proved useful—and if he didn't cut to the chase fast he'd miss his chance.

The first stop was a group of socialites who so happened to be the parents of those children. They watched on with small smiles as their kids hovered around Finnick, and they looked rather pleased to be seeing Flake appearing. One of them raised their glass at him, welcoming him with a cheer.

"Finally caught a breath, Mr. Banner?" she laughed. Flake chuckled. He picked up a glass of wine from a passing tray and took a sip.

"I feel like I haven't seen them in decades," he wheezed. "Aggie looks just like her father, Helena."

Helena smiled, bittersweet, and reached out to Flake. She grabbed his shoulder and rubbed it, and for a moment Flake feared she would break down into tears. He knew after all these years that Helena still missed her husband, but he didn't think Lester's memory would cause this much of a reaction.

But Helena just nodded. "I'm just glad she still has a father figure to look up to," she sighed. The other parents around her agreed, some of them chiming in that their own children were doing well with Flake in their lives.

"I hate to turn this into a business matter, then," Flake said, guilt seeping into his tone. The socialites raised their brows at him, though none stopped him from continuing. "I was hoping you and the children could advocate for Four this year. We've a lot of potential volunteers who wish to honour the late President Snow's memory, but I'm worried One and Two will steal the show." _As usual_ , was left unsaid.

Helena chuckled behind her hand, amused. "They do that often, don't they? I'm all for it if Aggie and I can visit you sometime after. She keeps going on about seeing the fish lately."

Flake smiled brightly. There was nothing more he'd love to do in return than let Aggie see the fish in Four with her own eyes. Whatever the children wanted, he was more than happy to oblige.

(Unless they wanted him to pick a favourite, of course.)

* * *

 **Morrigan Foster, 42, District 5**

There were no ifs or buts about it. Morrigan won this divorce.

She smirked, hands on her hips, as the Peacekeepers carried her things out of her ex-husband's house. Things he would use day to day, things he'd need to keep up his habits—all proven to be hers at the wave of a receipt. Morrigan watched Adam as he slowly began to seethe at her, his face turning a very lovely shade of purple thanks to his inability to remember to breathe.

Morrigan Jackson was no more. Morrigan Foster was back for good.

"Is this really necessary?" Thomas sighed. Compared to his younger siblings, he was the only one acting like an adult about it all. Though then again, he was fifteen compared to their twelve. "Dad's just going to get back at you somehow."

Morrigan let out a _hmph_. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and adjusted her sunglasses. "Trust me, sweetheart," she said with confidence, "I put on a good enough show to make sure he never gets the chance."

Thomas groaned. He walked over to the garden, where his younger sisters chased each other through the hedges, and collapsed onto the lawn chair that oversaw the whole repossession. Morrigan wasn't surprised with how exhausted he looked. Thomas was the one who voiced concerns over the divorce, asking for a calmer way to resolve the issue between his parents. They'd loved each other at some point, he'd reasoned, but love didn't last forever.

Morrigan knew her marriage to Adam wouldn't last. The man was abrasive and commanding, needier than she'd ever thought someone could be. And his jealousy—God, Morrigan couldn't talk to her own brother without Adam breathing down her neck. Adam wasn't abusive about it (she'd have gotten much, much more out of the divorce if he was) but he was certainly exhausting.

A large dresser was brought out of the house, and Adam began his descent into madness.

"That was a wedding gift!" he screeched. Morrigan nodded.

"From _my_ mother." She reached into the handbag slung over her shoulder, where each and every item that legally belonged to her was listed. "Need the proof?"

"Shove it up your ass!"

How quaint.

"You're a master at arguing," she said dryly, "truly."

The Head Peacekeeper walked out of the house with the list of items in his hand. He looked once over at the mutt statues by Adam before turning his gaze back to Morrigan.

"These too, Ms. Foster?"

Adam flew into even more of a rage. He latched onto the closest statue and threatened the Peacekeepers around him with a garden shovel, screeching obscenities so loudly that the neighbours finally came out to witness the event for themselves. Morrigan just stared at him blankly, at the fact that he couldn't even remember how horrific she'd deemed the statues once she'd moved in with him. She'd given up her lavish mansion with an attic filled with unfinished paintings for those things, and this fool thought she wanted them.

She had every chance to say yes, seeing as she was given one of them by Adam for one of their anniversaries. She wondered how he would look as he watched her smash it on her property, finally letting the memory of Lulu Banks rest in peace.

But she wasn't entirely heartless. Once she was done with him, he'd need all those mutt statues just to stay sane.

"Leave them," she ordered. "They're hideous enough to stay."

Lain skipped over to Morrigan's side as clothing was brought out. Trinkets and furniture, all belonging to Morrigan now.

"Is Dad crying?" Lain asked, more amused than worried. She took after Adam more than she did Morrigan, but she certainly favoured her mother more than her father.

" _This_ , sweetie," Morrigan said, loud enough for Adam to hear, "is why you don't marry other victors. Their egos are damaged beyond repair when they realise they married their equal."

Kim was just a tad more worried about her father, sighing as she watched him snarl at each Peacekeeper that tried to talk him off the large mutt statue. She stood beside her sister and shook her head.

"We still get to see him, right?"

"Weekends, public holidays, and any times I have to mentor," she agreed. "You'll be able to say goodbye to him with his dignity somewhat intact."

From across the yard, Thomas called out, "When do we pick who we stay with?"

"Eighteen," Morrigan called back. "The judge said the year of your final reaping is the year you can choose who you live with."

He grunted. Sank further into the lawn chair and frowned. Thomas had clearly been hoping for a better resolution to his parents' conflicting personalities. Lain and Kim, at least trying to help bring Adam into a more presentable state, did their best to comfort him and distract him. Lain listed off activity after activity she wanted to do with him while Morrigan mentored in the Capitol, and Kim promised she'd make the best cupcakes Adam ever tasted.

At least he wasn't making a fool of himself anymore, though Morrigan wondered how long it'd last. All the attention was on him, and not for his lavish garden—Adam was bound to snap again within the week.

But, she reminded herself with a smile, it wouldn't matter. Morrigan still won this divorce, and rubbing salt in the wound would just be pitiful.

* * *

 **Johanna Mason, 31, District 7**

No matter how much she tried to ignore it, the pounding on her front door wouldn't stop. As much as Johanna wanted to sleep in and relax before the whole reaping started tomorrow, fate or karma or whatever the fuck it was keeping her awake didn't seem to agree with that life choice. One would assume someone would get the hint after an hour that no one was answering the door, but _clearly_ she was going to have to deal with a special kind of stupid this morning.

She stomped down the stairs with her duvet wrapped around her shoulders, dragging behind her. Johanna glared at the front door as another set of knocks sounded out. She yanked the door open, immediately blinding herself with the sunlight in front of her, and let out a pained hiss.

"Good morning, Johanna!" sang the old voice in front of her. Johanna stumbled back into the house, tripping over her duvet cape and crashing to the floor. "Oh, my!"

With a groan, Johanna pressed her face against the floor. "Why are you here a day early, Aeliana?"

The old woman in question hobbled into the house, big smile on her face and an assistant hovering behind her. Johanna was amazed the old pushover was still alive—not even most assholes from the career Districts lived to see ninety-three.

"I wanted to spend some time with you before tomorrow," Aeliana said sweetly. It made guilt rise in Johanna's chest, reminding her of the absolute treasure that had escorted her for her Games. Compared to most other escorts she'd heard of, Aeliana was basically everyone's sweet, frail grandma. And being rude to grandma felt _gross_. "May we come in?"

Johanna pushed herself to her feet again with a grunt. While still somewhat dazed with sleep, she was much more awake now than she was before. "Just leave your stuff by the door," Johanna yawned. "I'll carry it to the spare room after breakfast."

Aeliana shuffled closer to her and wrapped her frail arms around Johanna's shoulders. It took everything in Johanna not to break into a string of curses so close to the woman's ear.

"Thank you, Johanna."

Johanna didn't entertain people often. It was just something she didn't do. Ever. So to say she was underprepared for Aeliana's visit was an understatement. The best she could offer were a few mismatched mugs to pour them instant coffee, and very hastily scrub her frying pan to prepare some eggs. If Aeliana weren't so old and frail and sweet, she'd be kicking them to the curb and going back to bed with breakfast by now.

Three eggs sizzled in the pan as she watched the whites blankly. Sunny side up eggs was about the extent of her fancy breakfast repertoire, but she counted herself lucky they hadn't demanded anything complex. Aeliana was quite overjoyed when she saw the eggs and toast on her plate, asking Johanna to lean down and planting a kiss on the woman's cheek.

Johanna set to work making her own breakfast then, idly listening to Aeliana's assistant prattle off things they'll need to do before tomorrow's reaping. Aeliana nodded cheerily along with each instruction, munching on her eggs with a hum. It felt _weird_ to have this mini meeting happen in her own home. Johanna was used to everyone staying away and keeping to themselves. Probably too used to it at this point.

She couldn't complain, though. A life of luxury, being left alone and being allowed to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted was everything she could ask for. Most people complained and bitched about how _terrible_ and _traumatic_ the aftermath of the Games was for them, but Johanna couldn't see it. The Capitol loved her, called her innovative and original, and they paid her— _paid her_ —for killing her allies in the arena. What was not to love?

So when she sat down with her eggs and coffee, she was all smiles to Aeliana. She nodded and politely replied to each question, explaining her plans for mentoring tomorrow. It's the same method her own had granted her—minimal attention, meaningful advice. The Games was never handed to anyone on a silver platter, so straightforward advice was just useless. Solid scenarios never were adaptable enough for the arenas and the tributes, anyway.

At least all the difficult smooth-talking advice would be left to Aeliana, she thought as she finished off her breakfast. She hated all the cameras and crowds, the way you had to seem likable _and_ powerful to the Capitol. After the way she'd botched her own in order to keep up the weak appearance, too, Johanna doubted the tributes would take her advice if Aeliana had nothing to give.

Even as she stretched and realised she probably wouldn't be able to sleep again until the sun set, Johanna had a good feeling about this week.

* * *

 **Dexter Galloway, 33, District 10**

"Easy, now. You'll all get some, calm down."

The kid yelled up at him. Dexter snorted out a small laugh. They all crowded around him, desperate for his attention as they shoved each other aside. Only five baby goats to focus on, but with the way they acted it may as well have been sixty.

Dexter held the first bottle out, coaxing a brown one forward. He carefully led it away from the others as it suckled the nipple of the bottle, then shut the gate behind it and lifted it into his arms.

The teenagers behind him shuffled on their feet as they watched him. "Normally it takes about an hour to get them all fed," Dexter explained, "but since you're all here we might just have time to focus on the other animals."

One by one the teens took bottles and entered the pen. It wasn't an uncommon sight, having rather bored kids tend to his animals during the week. Ten had no shortage of troublemakers with parents who wanted them set on the straight and narrow. Dexter had no shortage of rooms and work to be done.

"Hold her gently, Cain," Dexter scolded one of the boys. The eldest of the group, Cain looked the least impressed about their situation. "You'll need those fingers to collect the eggs later."

Cain snorted. He was at least a little more careful as he handled the brown and white kid.

They all had their own reasons for being at Dexter's farm today. Cain vandalised his father's cows after an argument. Lucky was failing her classes at school due to a lack of motivation. Brock lazed about all day, sleeping enough to skip school and his chores. Roxy, like Dexter in his youth, struggled with anger and finding safe outlets for it. To all of them, even if they didn't know it, it was their parents' last resort before taking much more drastic actions to correct their behaviours.

"Shame they'll all wind up on the dinner table," Lucky sighed. She cradled the kid as she sat on the ground, stroking its back as it suckled the milk. "They'd make pretty cute pets."

"Oh, no." Dexter shook his head. "These ones are all female. We'll be keeping them around for a long time."

"Why?"

Roxy frowned down at her kid. It bleated up at her, meeting her gaze. "Some people can't handle cow milk," she growled. "Goats work better for them."

"True." The bottle was basically empty now. Dexter opened the gate and ushered the kid back inside, where it jumped around and bleated happily. "We usually use them for soap, though. Easier on the hands."

Their whole week was going to compose of this, even if Dexter had to leave tomorrow—Nanna and Renee would make sure of it. Though the teens seemed to at least want to try their best. None of them had complained yet (aside from Brock's grumbling about how wrong it was to walk around before the sun rose) and they all seemed to respect Dexter well enough. Definitely a calmer group compared to the last ones he had to help. He had a feeling they'd continue their chores even when Dexter was gone.

He patted down his shirt and turned to the teens, grinning at them. "Since it's almost time for breakfast," he said, "I'll take some requests and start prepping the food."

"Eggs over easy," Brock immediately shouted. His kid startled and squirmed, kicking him in the elbow at his outburst.

Lucky shrugged as she continued to pet her kid. "Oatmeal, please."

"Rox? Cain?" Dexter nodded to them expectantly.

Cain just grunted, "Toast."

To Dexter's surprise, Roxy said, "I want the leftover apple pie from last night."

"That is a dessert," Dexter deadpanned. She didn't even look fazed by the implied refusal.

"You said you were taking requests."

Well, she wasn't wrong. Dexter grabbed the hay bucket next to the pen and tipped the contents into the trough. It should've been enough to keep the kids fed until lunch.

"If I'm giving you apple pie," Dexter said slowly, "then _you_ have to shovel the cow manure before you eat it."

Roxy stared up at him in horror. "My appetite will be _obliterated_!"

He shrugged. As he left the barn to get a start on the meals, he called back to her, "Gotta work through the bitter to get to the sweet. I'll know if you got it done, so don't think of trying to trick me about it."

The groan she let out was all too amusing for Dexter to hear.

Renee had already wheeled Nanna out onto the porch of the farmhouse, ready to enjoy the sunrise as they sipped at their tea. Both women threw soft greetings to Dexter, asking for simple breakfasts once they learned that he was getting it ready. Renee even promised to keep an eye on the barn for Roxy as soon as Dexter let her in on their reluctant deal.

It was days like this that he was thankful for the eight burner stove that Capitol gave him. Cooking for more than just himself, his sister and his grandmother often required long waits for a free burner, but with victory came easier times cooking. And anything that made the Galloway family's life easier was a godsend.

He cracked a couple of eggs into a frying pan and laid out some bacon on a separate one. A pot of oats boiled behind it while a few pieces of bread sat beside the toaster. Dexter, despite everything in him telling him to wait, had pulled a slice of the apple pie from the freezer anyway. These kids were troublemakers outside of the Victors' Village, sure; but he trusted Roxy to do the right thing if she wanted the pie. After all, he was the same at her age.

And all the sweet he received was well, _well_ worth the bitter.

* * *

 **And those are our first half of the mentors! I'm starting chapter questions early, since I like the idea of combining overall sponsor points between stories (so if you also read Ad Mortem, this is a chance to up those points for the Good Stuff once the arena hits *winks*). Here we go!**

 **CQ #1:** Which mentor from this chapter was your favourite? Why?

 **With all that said and done, there's still a few places that haven't received any submissions at all. I'm hoping to close all submissions by the time the next mentor chapter is out (mid-October, so you'll have a few weeks!) but if you want to send in any to an open spot, feel free! Only the career spots have been closed, so I hope anyone interested in an outer District spot will take part!**


	3. The Haunted

**Hey guys! Welcome to the second mentor chapter, and final chapter before we introduce everyone :D Thanks a bunch for sending your characters in. I'll leave the list at the bottom of the chapter if you wanna skip to it now, but it's also on my profile alongside the mentors and escorts. (Which, by the way, I would like to thank y'all wonderful people for sending in for as well!)**

* * *

 **02 - The Haunted**

 **Adelle Martin, 23, District 3**

"I really think we should stop, Miss Martin."

Adelle didn't bother opening her eyes. She was too tired to even try. "How much?" she slurred.

"W—We've barely got a pint, but—"

"One pint," Adelle slurred. "Lemme… One pint."

The nurse didn't remove the needle. Maybe she was humouring her. Adelle didn't have the energy to ask if this was the case. She just sat there, listening to the other nurses as they tended to the other donors. What would this put her at? Would it be enough to make up for everything? Adelle weighed these thoughts in her mind as time seemed to slip by.

When she came back to her senses again, the needle was no longer in her arm and the room was silent. Around her neck was a travel cushion, her body propped up against a couch. Adelle slowly opened her eyes, pacing herself as the light blinded her.

She was in the resting room, other donors munching on slices of fruit and drinking coffee. Adelle sucked in a deep breath. She reached up and pinched at her eyes, the grogginess of her sudden sleep finally hitting her, before sitting up properly.

"She's awake," one of the donors called out. Adelle peeked between her fingers to see the nurse who'd tended to her walk into the room. She looked angry, Adelle thought. That definitely wasn't an expression you wanted to see on a medical worker.

Adelle just groaned and wiped at her eyes more as the worker sat down beside her.

"I know what's happening tomorrow will be hard for you, Miss Martin," the nurse sighed, "but those kids are going to need you conscious as much as possible."

"They can wait," Adelle said. She pointed to the jug of water in front of her, and the nurse immediately began filling a plastic cup with it. Adelle sipped before bothering to continue her argument. "I need to give back as soon as possible."

The nurse hummed. It was an unimpressed hum, the kind mothers made when their children talked back to them. She stood and left the room, disappearing behind her office's yellow door, and Adelle felt a weight lift from her. She hated it when people harassed her over her decision. She was just trying to do something good after all the horrible things she had to do in the arena.

And if she gave back as much blood as she shed, maybe she'd be freed from the nightmares and panic attacks at last.

"Those kids need you, Adelle," the nurse tried again. Adelle scowled. Kids who were about to become murderers didn't need her—no one who went into the Hunger Games did. What mattered was making sure the dead would stop haunting her.

"How many pints total?"

The nurse heaved a sigh. "Seventeen, Miss Martin."

Seventeen. The bodies she'd left to rot made a combined forty pints. She wasn't recovering nearly quick enough to repay in her own blood.

"The Games will be my rest period," she muttered. "When I come back, take two pints."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Miss Martin."

That came from behind her. Adelle scowled and sank further into the couch. Of course someone from the Capitol came looking for her. Of course they wanted to keep her from atoning. The Capitolite in question moved to sit beside her, letting out a low groan as he sank into the cough.

As far as Adelle knew, Magnus Tweed was one of the few Capitolites who didn't like standing out as much as the others. During her victory tour she had the chance to meet with him in private and see his plans for the arena—after all, it was Magnus who won the contest to design it when they were younger—and ever since Adelle found him to be the only Capitolite she could tolerate.

At least for a few minutes.

Magnus tugged on his beanie, pushing any bits of pink hair underneath to keep from standing out in the room full of Three citizens.

"They can wait," Magnus said. "Those kids you want to pay back—they're dead. They can _wait_ , Adelle. The living can't."

As the nurse seemed pleased by the intervention, leaving Adelle's side in favour of another man who emerged from the next room over. Adelle was left alone with Magnus, already in for a lecture. It wasn't even noon.

"Why are you here, Tweed?" Adelle glared at him. "I already agreed to mentor."

"Who else would keep you from self-destructing?" Magnus dared to smile, though it was bittersweet. It didn't last long, his gaze falling to the table in front of them as he shifted in his spot. "Seriously, though. Your dad said this was the third time this month that you came to donate—it's not healthy, Adelle."

"Neither is the Hunger Games."

"We have the Hunger Games to keep order—"

Adelle scoffed. She leaned forward, hoping to pick up a biscuit from the table, but soon found her weight falling down to the floor. Had Magnus not caught her as she dropped, she would've cracked her head open on the corner of the table. He steadied her, courteous enough to grab the biscuit tray for her. From there it was just silence.

She only had time to eat two biscuits before he started again. When was he going to just give up and let her be?

"You really need to see someone, Adelle," Magnus sighed. "You're as well-versed in the mind as I am, and I know for a fact you're aware that your behaviour counts as self harm."

"I'm not suicidal."

"No, but you're not healthy. No one comes out of the Hunger Games sound of mind—even careers struggle."

She angrily munched on a third biscuit.

"Just promise me you'll be there for these kids," he went on. "After this year, you won't have to mentor for a long time. You can turn yourself into some kind of gloomy sacrificial lamb when it's over."

And with that, Magnus got up and left. For all the fuss he kicked up about keeping Adelle healthy and alive, he sure did keep it brief.

But he was right about one thing: Adelle Martin was not healthy.

* * *

 **Sterling Hayes, 47, District 6**

He was at the cornucopia again. Seventeen and out of breath. Chest heaving, hands heavy.

 _Who are you?_

He was Sterling Hayes.

 _And where are you from, Mr. Hayes?_

He was from District Six. The upper class area—near the private school for kids hoping to work in the Capitol. Near the Victors' Village.

 _Good, good. Do you know where you are now?_

Sterling sucked in a deep, pained breath. He was in the arena. Arena for what? Why was this beautiful island and the lagoon at its centre an arena?

 _Do you know why you're in the arena?_

Why? Why was he in the arena? Sterling recalled the previous nine days, the pinching and poking and screaming. How did he get from Six to here? He'd stood in line—felt the prick against his finger—and then…

Reaped. He was reaped. The escort called his name out and no one volunteered to help him.

 _Who was reaped alongside you, Sterling?_

Forward he went. To the chariot they both stood in, conductor uniforms making them both look older than they really were. Long blonde hair, a gap in her teeth that was absolutely adorable. Her eyes didn't match—one blue, the other brown—and there were birthmarks on the back of her neck that she was embarrassed of.

Marcie? Maxie? No, those aren't right. Her name was more important, more special to Sterling. Disgust washed over him. Something, somewhere, was berating him for forgetting this girl's name.

 _Take your time, Mr. Hayes_. _How about you tell me what you were reaped for instead?_

Violence. Something violent and horrifying. Blood, weapons, screaming. They never stopped screaming. Sterling never stopped listening. Nine days was his limit—nine days was when he began to starve. Hunger Games.

 _That's right._

All the Districts sending their children to die—not by choice, though upper Districts were different. Bloodthirsty, even. But Sterling's District didn't like people being taken. It was a mourning period, an uncertainty that left families in turmoil.

Sterling looked around as panic rose in his chest. Hunger Games; he was in the Hunger Games. Was he hurt? Was someone hunting him? Where was everyone? Was it just him at the cornucopia? Where were the careers who coveted the structure like a trophy?

 _Breathe, Mr. Hayes. You're safe._

He was safe. Safe. No one was around—he was on his own, safe.

 _What does the arena look like right now?_

Green. So very green. Palm trees and shrubs, beautiful white sand at his feet. The water was a beautiful blue—the blue he always thought Four would look like. The same blue as one of her eyes. If he looked close enough he could see the flowers at the edges of the cornucopia, pink and blossoming. He liked those flowers. They were pretty and didn't try to harm him.

Sterling faltered then. Why would the flowers harm him? His hand flew up to his heart, the beating hard and painful, as he glanced over his shoulder. Behind him was the clearing he'd emerged from. Darker, ominous. Hissing could be heard just past the trees, the leaves and vines shifting and curling around something.

 _What is it, Mr. Hayes?_

There was something on the ground behind him, still and silent. For a time it seemed to only be a mass of nothingness, a gap in his vision as he stared at the vines snaking ever so slowly towards it. The plants were hungry, he thought before he could stop himself. They hadn't eaten enough when they realised he was in there.

Sharp pain shot up Sterling's leg. He toppled over, screaming in agony, as the blood spurted out of his ankle. It was burning and burning and burning, his blood like lava against his bare skin. Sterling whimpered and begged it to stop as he lifted the leg.

"I'm going to die," he choked.

 _You're okay, Mr. Hayes. What happened to you?_

His foot—almost his entire achilles tendon was missing. Just a gaping wound where it used to be, bits of his ankle bone visible under all the blood. The plants were hungry, he told himself. His gaze flitted back to the mass, to the sudden flash of blonde hair dragging along he ground as the vines pulled it back out of the clearing.

Maisy. The vines had Maisy.

 _Who's Maisy?_

He recalled an older girl with a similar appearance. Maisy's sister? Sterling felt a warmth when he pictured her face, a love that threatened to overwhelm him as he watched Maisy stare up at him blankly. Glassy eyed. No life flowing through her whatsoever.

"I'm so sorry, Ava," he whimpered. "I'm so sorry."

 _Who is Maisy, Mr. Hayes?_

Ava's sister. Younger, by three years. They meant the world to each other, and once Sterling entered the picture she was everything to him as well. Innocent and sweet. Everything they wished they could be in trying times.

 _Who was Ava to you, then?_

A loved one. More than loved—adored, desired. His first kiss, his first time, his first love. His first major commitment in life. A weight appeared on his hand, his ring finger heavier than before. He tore his eyes away from Maisy as she slowly left his field of vision, the vines around her throat loosening and grasping her arms. His right hand now had a ring adorning it, a small engraving of words along its smooth surface. Sterling silver—his namesake—declared, _Forever yours_.

They were never going to marry after the reaping. With her sister going, the last thing Sterling could do was make sure Maisy came back. Ava had begged him to. Sterling had agreed.

But now…

The world seemed to spin around him. The earth shook, the ringing in his ears becoming more and more prominent. This wasn't how it happened. There wasn't an earthquake when it happened. As his fingers brushed the large stone beside him, Sterling's hands shook.

"Make it stop, Dr. Llywelyn."

 _Are you sure, Mr. Hayes?_

"Hey! Six!"

He didn't dare responding to the voice. He didn't want to face the boy he killed.

" _Please_ ," he sobbed. "I don't want to remember."

 _When you hear the bell ring, you will no longer be in the arena._ _When you hear me say so, open your eyes._

Heavy feet trudging through sand. Sterling shook all over. He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind desperately calling for the bell to ring. Closer, closer. The poor child got closer. Please, let it end. Wind rushing through his ears, a jingle, light like a cloud—

"And open your eyes."

Calm grey walls. His hypnotherapist, Dr. Llywelyn, sitting across from him. Was it done already? Had Sterling panicked earlier than usual in today's session?

Dr. Llywelyn was writing in his notebook, nodding along to his own train of thought.

"You did well today, Mr. Hayes," he said softly. "I understand how difficult it is, given the time of year. We'll resume our sessions in a fortnight—take care of yourself until then."

As Sterling left the office, feeling hollow and tired, he wondered when the day he could finally remember himself, his life prior to the train during his Victory Tour, would come.

* * *

 **Jean Brady, 41, District 8**

"Nanna, I'm— _Nanna!_ "

She lunged at the door, locking it as best she could as Collette pushed her weight against it. The twelve-year-old screamed and shouted at Jean, begging her to stop. But Jean didn't want to. It all needed to go, to be hidden from Capitol eyes lest they try take even this from her.

The mannequins and fabrics burned in her yard while her granddaughter struggled to pry open the back door. Jean stood there, wearing only her bathrobe, as she chucked a spool of yarn onto the pile. The fire grew and grew, consuming it all—and there was still plenty to go through before tomorrow came.

As Jean hoisted another mannequin over her shoulder, its half-finished ballgown dragging along the ground, Collette fled back through the house. She was probably going to scale the fence from the front and try douse the flames. Jean threw the mannequin and gown into the bonfire. It was a good thing she hid the hose in the attic before she started.

After the message she'd received yesterday, telling her that it was her turn to send children to their deaths, all she could think about was everything the Capitol had taken from her. Her daughter, her nephews, her childhood home, her stability. Everything they gave her, they forced her to pay them back twofold. With just an adopted granddaughter and her life's work left, Jean decided to destroy it all before anyone could get their grubby hands on them.

She didn't want to lose Collette like she lost Terry. Even if it got her executed and labelled a rebel, she'd do everything in her power to keep Collette safe. The unlucky Brady line would end by her own hands.

Collette tumbled over the fence with a loud grunt. "Nanna!" she shrieked.

Jean kicked one of the pairs of shoes she'd been making for Collette's formal dance into the fire. One of them was half-finished, the thin heel that the other sported still needing to be attached.

"Nanna, what are you doing!?"

Collette snatched as much of the clothes in Jean's pile into her hands as she could. Jean didn't bother to try stop her, having already burned enough to send a message to the Capitol.

"Had to be done," Jean muttered.

" _Why_?" Collette stared helplessly between the fire and Jean. She was on the verge of tears as she clutched her formal dress, now covered in dirt and ashes, to her chest. "Why would you have to destroy everything?"

Jean sucked in a deep breath—then doubled over as smoke filled her lungs. While Jean was stuck curling in on herself for air, Collette took advantage of her breathlessness to unlock the back door. It didn't take long for her to come back with a large mixing bowl filled with water, and in one splash a quarter of the fire sizzled out.

The dress Jean was asked to wear to the reaping tomorrow was one of the surviving garments, though the burnt holes and scorch marks all along its bodice and skirt felt almost like the perfect addition.

Collette heaved the dress out from the pile. She hissed as lingering embers burnt her fingers, but otherwise the girl was unharmed.

"Nanna, your dress—"

"It looks more suitable."

Collette winced. Jean could only watch as her granddaughter went through the options—to argue, to agree, to give up entirely—with each expression on her face. Finally, as the fire picked up again in the area she'd doused, Collette just sighed.

She calmly walked back in the house with the dress, setting it beside her own on the nearby table, and returned with another bowl of water. Collette wasn't as frantic as she slowly put out the fire. Jean didn't bother to stop her.

Instead, Jean left her granddaughter to it. Despite the fact that Collette had gone out to grab groceries for them, Jean wasn't going to stay home to eat. Phase two of her plan had to be seen through, even if Collette would never see it like she had seen the fire. Jean trudged up her stairs to her room, quick to put on the lace lingerie she'd laid out on her bed. Jean replaced her bathrobe with a trench coat, making certain to button it up entirely and that nothing was peeking out between the folds.

With her best heels on and her purse in her hands, Jean strode out of her house and left Collette to finish putting out the fire. She would not see Collette until tonight, she told herself as she took the fastest train to the Capitol. She would not see her pride until tonight, when she walked through the door as though nothing had happened. She would not see her tattered dress until tonight, when the ramifications of selling herself to someone to pull the strings of fate would catch up with her.

It was all she could do to prevent Collette from going each year. It was the one thing she was able to do that she couldn't bring herself to do for Terry.

* * *

 **Amaranth Iliev, 57, District 9**

"They're gonna love you, Ran," Chess cooed. He fixed his co-star's tie, making sure to move slowly and carefully to keep from startling the man. "They always do."

Amaranth sucked in a deep, steeling breath as the limousine rounded the corner. This was the part he hated most about films—the premieres he was expected to make an appearance at. Some of the filming and acting may have given him flashbacks and panic attacks on bad days, but premieres _always_ forced him back to the interviews, the tours, the tabloids. The adoring fans saying they wanted to be like him. The protesters that labelled him a murderer.

He looked down at Chess with guilt tugging in his chest. Chess was one of the few co-stars he'd had that respected his boundaries and did everything in their power to help Amaranth through triggers in the script. The fact that Chess would also be escorting tomorrow for Amaranth's District has him worried somewhat—rumours pop up everywhere, and there's no doubt that once people notice how chummy the two stars are the tabloids will run column after column. Would they call Amaranth a cradle robber? Chess a gold digger? What if they were condemning about it? Capitolites being out of the norm was acceptable, but District citizens? Unspeakable.

"Ran, you good?"

Chess patted Amaranth's shoulder once, softly, as he watched him. Amaranth cleared his throat and nodded, his movements jilted and robotic. At this point it was pointless to acknowledge how frustrating it all felt. No one listened anyway.

But Chess loved to listen. Some of the producers, too. It just wasn't the best time to start spilling his anxieties all over the floor and letting them flood the room.

"Yeah." Amaranth pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just— Premieres are always tough to sit through."

"The movie won't make things difficult, will it?"

"Don't know." Of course it would. If Amaranth kept having hallucinations of his kills onset when the stuntmen performed their scenes, then seeing the deaths in this movie would push him into a full breakdown.

Chess looked like he knew it, too. Instead of arguing against Amaranth and matter-of-factly saying he _would_ have a hard time, Chess dug around in his purse for a moment. He let out a triumphant sound once he opened one of the inner pockets, and soon pressed a small bag of ear plugs into Amaranth's hand.

"Once we get inside you can put them in," he said. "As long as you close your eyes during the movie, you should be alright. I'll even let you know when it finishes."

Amaranth didn't exactly have a lot of time to argue. He hurriedly stuffed the small bag into his trouser pockets once he heard the limo door click open. Flashing lights assaulted him, blinded him, but he pushed forward. Stuck on his best stoic expression—the Capitol always ate up his suffering like a delicacy—and walked briskly onto the red carpet.

Reporters and interviewers approached him, but Chess hurried him along and handled the questions himself. Amaranth was inside the theatre in under two minutes. He was in his seat, right up the front, within five.

He would never get used to this. Young Amaranth had been a fool to think that becoming a pseudo Capitolite would solve all his problems. All they ever demanded of the victor was action movies, blood and gore for days. Amaranth had given them a performance in Panem's greatest bloodsport—who was to say he couldn't entertain in fictional bloodletting?

He was a fool for thinking living in fiction would solve his problems. He was a fool for thinking this was the better alternative to endless amounts of self medicating and therapy.

Chess settled into the seat beside him, groaning dramatically and complaining about the press. It was just the critics in the theatre behind them, and more often than not they felt the same about the media. It wasn't like someone would call them fakes for complaining once the cameras were out of sight.

"Still got 'em?" Chess asked under his breath. Amaranth nodded. "You can put them in now if you want. We don't have to stand until the credits finish rolling."

He knew that. No one ever acknowledged the actors until the end credits, where they were required to bow and thank everyone for watching their hard work in its final stage. Amaranth pulled the plugs out of is pocket, tearing open the packet just as the director took a seat on his other side. Amaranth panicked for a moment, certain the director would be offended—but the younger man looked at him in understanding.

"Thanks for putting up with all this, Mr. Iliev," the director muttered. "I'll see if I can convince some friends of mine with tamer projects to take you on. People don't give you enough credit for your range."

No mention of the ear plugs. The director just greeted Chess as he leaned forward, peeking around Amaranth, and then settled into his seat anxiously.

Amaranth was put at ease for the first time in years once the sound was blocked out and the lights dimmed. His eyes slid shut, thoughts going to happier times, as he patiently waited for the next hour and forty minutes to pass.

* * *

 **Chaff Taylor, 58, District 11**

The nightmare he awoke from was as devastating as the others. Cold sweat on his back, his arms aching as though he'd carried the weight of the world. These were always difficult to work through, Chaff thought bitterly as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. The sheets were all over the place, his pillow half off the bed, and all Chaff could think as he saw the clock at his bedside table declare half past midnight was how _horrible_ sleep seemed to be.

Everyone had these troubles. The nightmares, the regrets. The phantom aches and chronic pain. He rubbed at the stump left behind of his hand with a hiss, wishing away the ache that tricked him into thinking his fingers and palm were still there. It was gone, he told himself over and over. Left behind in the arena to ensure his survival.

Despite everyone having these troubles, there weren't a lot of victors in Eleven who would be awoken by them like Chaff had been. They'd all joked about the nightmares syncing as they lived in the same area, but that was all it was—a joke. The unfortunate reality was that when someone needed help, everyone else was just barely keeping things _manageable_.

Chaff didn't know a lot of people in Eleven who would be awake to help. But he did know someone in another District entirely.

He stumbled out of his room with a grunt, back aching and pyjamas damp from the tossing and turning and stressing. Chaff didn't bother with his slippers, knowing he would most likely fall asleep on his couch while talking to Haymitch. It happened a lot with the two of them whenever they got to see each other: Haymitch would pass out during the day while they mentored together, too drunk to even keep his eyes open, and Chaff would crash whenever they were back in their homes, comforted by the familiar friend and understanding conversations.

The first thing Chaff did when he flopped onto his couch was reach for the remote that controlled the fireplace. He clicked the button that turned the temperature up, letting himself bask in the welcome warmth it provided, before tossing it aside and reaching for another remote.

The small screen atop his coffee table lit up when he turned it on, immediately greeting him with an artificial, " _Hello, Chaff._ "

Chaff sorted through the contacts on the screen, finding Haymitch's easily—it was the only out-of-District contact he had listed, right above this year's escort. Chaff hesitated for only a second, debating whether or not Haymitch would be awake; it didn't matter whether or not he was, though, because habit forced his thumb onto the call button and left Chaff waiting in bated silence for his friend to answer.

He just hoped Haymitch hadn't passed out somewhere in a pile of his own vomit prior to his call.

* * *

 **Haymitch Abernathy, 52, District 12**

Haymitch was a mess when he was jolted awake by his phone ringing. He wasn't sure _what_ he was laying in, but he sure as hell didn't want to deal with it until morning. Present Haymitch was just too hungover. Future Haymitch would have better luck than he would now.

He hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt. His entire body ached, his mouth dry and his head ringing. What time even was it? It was pitch black outside—who the hell was calling him at a time like this?

A quick glance at the nearest clock declared it to be almost twenty to one. Haymitch would scream if it weren't for the dryness and soreness of his throat. He stumbled through the room—slipping twice on the mess all over the floor—before he finally made it to the living room, and to say Haymitch was annoyed by the ringing was an understatement.

He slammed the answer button, barely reading the name on the screen, and slurred, "Wha' you wan'?"

Chaff's voice came through somewhat grainy, but it was easy enough to recognise after a few seconds. Haymitch collapsed to the floor with a groan while Chaff tried to get another response from him.

"It's almost one in the damn morning," Haymitch groaned. "Why're you up?"

" _Usual,_ " Chaff replied curtly. " _You?_ "

"I was asleep till now." In Lord knows what, to boot.

" _Then I'm so sorry to disrupt your beauty rest_ ," Chaff teased. Haymitch snarled at him, hoping the sound was picked up by the microphone. It proved to be when Chaff chuckled in response. " _Tomorrow's it._ "

Haymitch rolled onto his side. The reaping—the first day of the 85th Games. "Yeah," he murmured.

" _You gonna be okay through it?_ "

In all honesty, Haymitch wouldn't. All the false hope he'd been given eleven years ago had worn him down and destroyed him in ways he didn't know he could be after what Snow did to him. Standing on that stage, looking kids in the eye and knowing they'd die in a few days' time; to be the only one to have to do that in all of District Twelve… It was lonely.

And when it boiled down to it, that was all Haymitch Abernathy was. A lonely man living a lonely existence, saying goodbye to someone else's child as he drowned himself in whatever he could get his hands on. Part of him wished he stopped at nightmares like Chaff did most nights. Part of him wished he'd lost his hand instead of everything that made him who he was.

" _Haymitch?_ "

He grunted, letting Chaff know he was still awake. He probably would be for the next few hours anyway. "Yeah. I'm, ah—I'll manage."

" _My floor will always be open if you need a drinking buddy this year_ ," Chaff went on. Haymitch smiled despite himself, genuinely touched by the offer. He may have been lonely in Twelve, but Chaff always made sure he had a friend in Eleven.

"I'll have to take you up on that come the launch day."

* * *

 **In case it wasn't clear (cuz it feels vague as hell when I reread it), Sterling's section has him attending a hypnotherapy session. The trauma of his Games caught up with him during his victory tour, resulting in major amnesia that he's struggling to recover from.**

 **Alright! Before we get to that list, here's the chapter question!**

 **CQ #2:** Which was your favourite mentor from this bunch? Why?

 **I hope to see you all next time when we meet our tributes from 10 and 3! Till then, here's the list of tributes, mentors and escorts - and you can find all the characters for a first impression on the Ad Aeturnum blog, which is provided above the list on my profile!**

 **D1F:** Zelda Dougherty, 18 - _AmericanPi_  
 **D1M:** Tyrion "Ty" Lector, 18 - _Mik_  
 **Mentor:** Tria Dougherty, Victor of the 33rd Games, 70 - _AmericanPi_  
 **Escort:** Twilight Starr, 41 - _AmericanPi_

 **D2F:** Farrah Beatrix, 18 - _mukkou_  
 **D2M:** Marc Antonius, 15 - _Mik_  
 **Mentor:** Hippolyta Seville, Victor of the 51st Games, 50  
 **Escort:** Javion LeBlanc, 26 - _joesukehoesuke_

 **D3F:** Aubrey "Bree" Dolson, 15 - _Mik  
_ **D3M:** Dyson Carx, 16 - _HoppsHungerFan_  
 **Mentor:** Adelle Martin, Victor of the 80th Games, 23  
 **Escort:** Timotis "Timmy" Kaleon, 33 - _LokiThisIsMadness_

 **D4F:** Bo Stellar, 17 - _Mik_  
 **D4M:** Marshall Selkie Yanovich, 16 - _Mik_  
 **Mentor:** Flake Banner, Victor of the 41st Games, 59  
 **Escort:** Daphne Amberton, 22 - _cookiecastlequeen_

 **D5F:** Edith Reisenfeld, 16 - _joesukehoesuke_  
 **D5M:** Benjamin Amaura, 14 - _mukkou_  
 **Mentor:** Morrigan Foster, Victor of the 60th Games, 42  
 **Escort:** Tora Arot, 29 - _mukkou_

 **D6F:** Adelaide Martell, 18 - _TheEngineergingGames_  
 **D6M:** Page Elva, 15 - _Winter's Writing_  
 **Mentor:** Sterling Hayes, Victor of the 55th Games, 47  
 **Escort:** Alice Mae Barrington, 18 - _cookiecastlequeen_

 **D7F:** Anna Monique, 12 - _Mik_  
 **D7M:** Jack Rowan, 17 - _cookecastlequeen_  
 **Mentor:** Johanna Mason, Victor of the 71st Games, 31  
 **Escort:** Aeliana Redwood Smithsonian, 93 - _AmericanPi_

 **D8F:** Lacey Norris, 16 - _cookiecastlequeen_  
 **D8M:** Colbie "Coco" Connelly, 16 - _Mik_  
 **Mentor:** Jean Brady, Victor of the 56th Games, 41  
 **Escort:** Augustus Glitz, 37- _66amvr_

 **D9F:** Mona Harvey, 12 - _cookiecastlequeen_  
 **D9M:** Talon Barter, 15 - _Sheep-and-deodorant_  
 **Mentor:** Amaranth Iliev, Victor of the 44th Games, 57  
 **Escort:** Chess Joker, 25 - _Mik_

 **D10F:** Leila Arturi, 16 - _LokiThisIsMadness_  
 **D10M:** Niels Hyla, 18 - _TheEngineeringGames_  
 **Mentor:** Dexter Galloway, Victor of the 68th Games, 33  
 **Escort:** Francesca "Fluffy" Rosington, 21 - _Sheep-and-deordorant_

 **D11F:** Maybell Chaklai, 18 - _goldie031_  
 **D11M:** Reynard Faust, 18 - _palm-biitch_  
 **Mentor:** Chaff Taylor, Victor of the 45th Games, 58  
 **Escort:** Hibiscus Merriweather, 55 - _SylveonCupcake_

 **D12F:** Tanith Kohli, 18 - _Mik_  
 **D12M:** Herbert Heath, 12 - _AmericanPi_  
 **Mentor:** Haymitch Abernathy, Victor of the 50th Games, 52  
 **Escort:** Philomena Dunlap, 31 - _SylveonCupcake_


	4. Leila and Niels, Aubrey and Dyson

**AYYY WE'VE GOT OUR FIRST INTROS! Sorry it took a while to get this done ^^" Hopefully I won't be as busy with the next one. Great big thank you to** LokiThisIsMadness **for Leila,** TheEngineeringGames **for Niels, and** HoppsHungerfan **for Dyson.**

* * *

 **03 - Leila and Niels, Aubrey and Dyson**

 **Leila Arturi, 16, District 10**

 _Three days before the reaping_

The view was as beautiful as ever. No matter how many times she came up here, Leila would never get tired of seeing it.

With all the stress coming around over reaping preparations and news over who was doing what in the Capitol, Leila was glad to get away from it all for a while. If she wasn't hearing about it on TV, it was the adults fretting over whether or not this year's Games would be more unbearable to witness than the last. Leila grunted as she pulled herself up onto the ledge, her favourite spot to watch the sunrise. Hopefully this break would be just what she needed to forget it all.

The rest of her little pack was trailing slowly behind her, taking their time and complaining that Leila moved too fast for them. She listened as they chattered and stomped after her, all of them recounting their mornings so far and what they looked forward to most this week. Some of their plans sounded fun—part of her wished she could join in with a few of them. But she had responsibilities to uphold, even if those obligations felt weighted.

Hikes along the mountainside were one of the few things that let Leila feel free nowadays. Being the oldest of triplets, everything naturally fell onto her to be taken over. Farmwork, leading her brothers alongside her; it all fell to Leila thanks to a few mere minutes separating her from her brothers.

Leila leaned back, pressing the palms of her hands against the ground. The air was warm and smelt familiar—like hay and burning wood, like sour grass and sweet, unpasteurized milk. It smelt like home. She always wondered what other places would smell like and how they would look in the light of the sunrise, fuelled by the theories and excitement of experiencing so many new things in a matter of seconds.

Davos joined her before everyone else. He tended to race Marc up the slopes, and most times he won. Her brother looked just as relaxed as she did, breathing in the air deeply, as he said, "This is the life."

If only it could last longer, Leila thought with a hum.

"So who's coming last?" she asked, not even bothering to look over her shoulder and see for herself. Leila didn't want to look away from the view, after all.

"Roman, as usual," Davos cackled. "From the looks of things Henri will get here first."

"Barbara end up joining you guys after I went ahead?"

A shrug from Davos. "If she followed, she did it after we did." For good measure, Davos even turned around—greeting Henri along the way as the older boy collapsed behind Leila—and gave the slope a quick scan. "No… Henri, was Barbara behind you guys?"

Behind her, Henri grunted. "She said she was staying home to meet up with someone else today."

Leila whirled around on the spot, spilling small pebbles over the ledge. The fact that the position could cause her to fall at any minute didn't bother her; she did it all the time, and not once had she even stumbled or slipped. No, Leila was much more occupied with the news that Barbara wasn't with them today. That Barbara—someone who had held Leila's attention more than usual in a way that she was all too familiar with with some boys—was with someone other than their pack.

Sure, some of them had other friends. But it didn't stop the jealousy that simmered in Leila's stomach as she checked the small group heading their way. Only Marc, Alicia and Roman were approaching, no signs of Barbara at all.

"Oh," she said in a small voice. Leila made quick work of turning back around, hiding the jealous flush of her cheeks from Davos and Henri. This was fine, she tried to tell herself. Who cared if she was hoping to figure a few things out with Barbara around? Dumb, confusing feelings could wait. Her maybe-but-maybe-not-but-most-likely-crush could wait to be addressed.

"You really gotta control that protectiveness," Henri wheezed, attempting to laugh. Though she'd hidden most of her reaction from them, the fact that she always acted someone prickly whenever her friends weren't all together never escaped them. They'd never let her live down some of the things she'd done to back them up. "Barbara's a big girl. It's not like Roman wouldn't tell us if she was in trouble, either."

It was true. Being twins, Roman and Barbara told each other everything. And whatever bothered one, the other would enlist the help of their friends to take care of. (If only what had Leila so bothered today was as simple as trouble.)

Marc and Alicia made it to the ledge together, sitting down near Davos. A few minutes later Roman joined them, collapsing beside Henri and cheering to himself for making up with them.

"The gang's all here," Davos cheered. He hoisted himself up to his feet and cupped his hands around his mouth, bellowing into the mountain range, "Good morning, District Ten!"

The others laughed. Even Leila laughed. Small things like this made her dreams of leaving Ten, of seeing the world, all the more enticing. How many open spaces could she greet each morning like this? How many other mountains could she climb to see the sunrise? Sometimes people from the Capitol went skydiving in some areas—would Leila get a chance at that if she managed to travel?

She smiled to herself. Yeah, the whole Barbara crush thing could wait another day. Leila stood up beside Davos and mimicked his stance. At the top of her voice, Leila screeched a rooster's cry into the mountains.

The pack laughed at the tops of their lungs when half of the farms in the area gave them responses, multitudes of dogs and roosters hollering back at them.

Brushing her long hair away from her face, making certain that she hadn't gotten anything caught in it on the way up, Leila nodded to Davos and agreed, "Really is the life."

* * *

 **Niels Hyla, 18, District 10**

 _Six months before the reaping_

This was definitely not what they had intended to happen. All the nights sneaking out to meet each other, to just be in each other's presence for a few hours—Niels hadn't meant for it to lead to this.

Trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went, resulting from whatever he did. Even when all he had was good intentions Niels found himself on the receiving end of bad news. He could barely even register what their parents were saying as he stared at Hirca blankly. She had so many plans for her future—plans Niels was so excited to see her accomplish—and now it was all going down the drain because of _him_.

Her mother held onto her protectively, almost scowling at Niels while her father expressed his frustrations to Juno. Juno Hyla just did his best to keep the Vends family calm, his wife silently scolding Niels for being so reckless and disobeying them in the first place. Niels honestly deserved it this time—he'd made that decision to sneak out with Hirca every night, and it was _him_ who'd been foolish enough to think that one time wouldn't hurt. One time wouldn't bring their world crashing down.

"He's not only gone out of his way to blatantly disregard our wishes," Mr. Vends shouted, "but he's _impregnated_ my daughter while doing so!"

"And I'm so sorry for the trouble he's caused—"

" _Trouble_!?" Mrs. Vends was turning red at Juno's words. "That's all this is to you? _Trouble_!?"

Valeria held Niels's shoulder firmly as she said, "I assure you, we'll make sure he takes responsibility for this."

He had to. It was all he could do to make it up to Hirca after his mistakes. All the trouble he caused he wouldn't be solved right away by it, but Niels knew it was a stepping stone in the right direction. More than that, he _wanted_ to take responsibility for this. To leave Hirca on her own, to ignore the hard slap to the face reality has given him… Even Niels had to admit that would be childish.

Niels sucked in a deep, deep breath through his nose. Valeria muttered his name under her breath, almost warning him, but Niels was set in his decision. If he wanted to make it up to Hirca, this would be the best start.

He pushed away from his mother's stern grip and made his way across the room. Everyone, even Mr. Vends, was absolutely silent as he made his way over to the Vends family. Niels had to make this right. He _had to_. Even as his father mumbled his name, asking what he was doing, Niels kept his gaze locked on Hirca's father.

Mr. Vends sized Niels up as he came to a stop a mere foot away from him. Despite the annoyance and disappointment in Mr. Vends's eyes, he said nothing and merely waited for Niels to speak.

"Let me make this right, sir," Niels choked out. His voice was loud and clear, but his throat felt strained as he fought the fear of rejection in the back of his mind. "Please—give me your blessing to marry Hirca and take responsibility for—" Niels worked his jaw. "For _our_ child."

"Niels—" Hirca started. Mr. Vends clamped his hands down on Niels's shoulders, holding him in place and silencing his daughter with the sudden movement.

Though the disappointment was there in his gaze still, Mr. Vends had replaced the annoyance with something else: Hope. "You mean it, boy?" he muttered. "I know what young men these days are like. You think you can live up to those words?"

Niels puffed out his chest. He _would_ make this right. No matter what. "If you won't let me support Hirca," Niels declared, "then I'll elope with her and do it regardless."

"Enough!"

At the statement, Hirca bolted out of her chair and shoved herself between Mr. Vends and Niels. Her arms snaked around Niels's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug as Mr. Vends remained suspiciously silent. Niels barely even had the chance to weigh the expression on Mr. Vends's face before Hirca had stepped in.

Hirca pressed Niels's face into her shoulder, waiting for him to return the embrace. The moment Niels wrapped his arms softly around her waist was the moment Hirca addressed everyone in the room.

"I don't regret this," she said, "and neither should Niels. We knew what we were doing, and we'll figure out what to do with all this along the way." She pulled back, hands holding Niels's face in front of hers and keeping him from avoiding her gaze. Hirca looked on the brink of heartbreak as she sucked in a deep breath, almost unable to continue. "I love you more than anything, Niels. But I'm _begging_ you, don't resolve to marry me just to make up for this. I don't care if we part ways or if we stay together—I'm going to love this baby as much as I love you, no matter what you decide to do from here. You got that?"

His chest was on fire. His lungs were burning, his heart beating wildly. She was right. As usual, Hirca was right. Wanting to make up for getting her pregnant wasn't a good enough reason to want to marry her. Niels had better reasons to. No matter what their parents thought, he always would have better reasons to want to spend his life with her.

Niels pulled her hands from his face and dropped down onto one knee. Hirca's face contorted into that of a mixture of distress and joy. He was going to give her a heart attack one day with his impulsiveness, he knew it.

"Hirca Vends," Niels announced, "I still want to marry my best friend. I still want to marry the person most special to me. I still want to marry _you_."

Behind him, his parents exchanged whispers. He couldn't tell what they were saying—but he knew their tone was far from disappointed or angry.

Niels couldn't care, though. Hirca smiled down at him, all of her worries gone in an instant as she gave him a light shove.

"You could've at least gotten me a ring first. Cheap jerk," she teased.

* * *

 **Aubrey Dolson, 15, District 3**

 _One month before the reaping_

"Time is sixteen-hundred hours. Date is six-nineteen-eighty-five."

The tape whirred as she recorded herself. There was no way in hell she would miss the chance to log this.

"A reporting. Despite recent attempts at finding more concrete evidence into muttation infiltration among Peacekeeper ranks, my searches have turned up blank. There have been a number of close calls that almost resulted in my identity being exposed. For now my safest option may be to stick to the shadows and keep an eye on those less likely to pick me out of a crowd."

Bree clicked the file closest to her computer's cursor, opening a whole folder of documents with coded labels. Her most recent one—titled, _hydrous twig dome_ —was a work in progress regarding a family of victors in a career District. As much as she wanted to get to the bottom of just _what_ was truly watching over the hapless citizens of Three, Bree was going to have to set her sights elsewhere.

"I hope that this setback doesn't throw my plans under the bus, though truth be told I suspect someone will come for me soon." Bree licked her lips as she opened the victor's file. "The knowledge I possess is dangerous to them, and once the public finally sees the monsters for what they are Panem will be back in the hands of its people."

Wisdom Dougherty, victor of the 63rd Hunger Games, flashed across her computer screen. Observations of pre-Games footage and post-Games photos were compared side by side, along with various notes regarding changes to her appearance and behaviour. Wisdom wasn't the first person Bree had made a file on and tracked mercilessly through all forms of media, and she wouldn't be the last.

She typed a few more notes, circling a now missing scar on her eyebrow that had once been present in her youth. All the excuses about plastic surgery and Capitol healing technology doing wonders was utter bull. Bree _knew_ there was more to it.

"After the assassination of the last President," Bree went on, "it's safe to assume that the mutts were behind it. With the Hunger Games coming up their advertisements and praises for key Capitol members have amped up. The big question is which one is behind it all. Celestia Snow? Possibly. The woman was reclusive and avoided the public up until now. Most of my suspicions fall onto the Gamemakers and victors, but putting their own leader in the most powerful seat in the country isn't out of the question."

She closed Wisdom's file and moved onto the next: _info rink acid_ , known to the masses as Finnick Odair. His file was one of the largest, all of his public appearances and the ways he wooed the crowds ripe for speculation.

A knock sounded on Bree's door. She hurriedly grabbed for the tape recorder and whispered, "Await further updates. A signing out." Bree shoved it into the drawer of her desk and locked it as quickly as she could, just barely tucking the key back into her pocket as the door to her bedroom opened.

Sabrina Dolson, as ignorant to the struggles of being a conspirator fighting the powers that be could ever be, walked into Bree's room with a glass of orange juice in her hand. The dark circles around Sabrina's eyes weren't as heavy as her daughter's, but they still betrayed just how little she'd slept last night after coming home from work.

"You're up," Sabrina said softly, smiling at Bree. Bree just whirled her chair back around to face her computer screen. She swept an arm over her desk, knocking the empty cans of energy drinks onto the floor with a loud clutter. If Sabrina had come with a peace offering, she was better off just leaving it on the desk and going back to her business. Bree had pictures to compare. "Oh. Oh, honey. Did you even slee—"

"They could find me at any moment," Bree interrupted. "All the kids at school talk about me and my findings like a joke. Those things are gonna use those jokes and find me." She added more notes to Finnick's file, detailing his recent appearance at a Capitol party. The man he'd been seen with was the mentor for Four, confirmed earlier than any of the others this year, which led Bree to believe that Flake Banner may have been recently replaced by one of the mutts. "The moment I sleep is the moment they win."

The sigh Sabrina let out was enough to make Bree pause her typing.

"Why couldn't you just hack into the Mayor's office and mess up his files like a normal kid?" Sabrina muttered as she left the room. Not only had she not given the juice to Bree like she'd made out to, but Bree's door was left wide open behind her. Bree whirled around in her chair with a snarl.

She didn't care that they didn't believe her. Neil made it very clear that he was ashamed to have Bree for a daughter, despite all the evidence she'd compiled _on her own_ over the issue. Sabrina herself barely even tried to hide the disappointment and exhaustion with all the hours she'd picked up. Bree always knew it was just her versus the world; she was just waiting for her parents to stop pretending it wasn't true.

Bree stormed over to the door and reached out to shut it. Her arm moved forward, closer and closer to the door—and then it started to drop, the floor closing in on her. Bree wouldn't realise it until she woke up a whole day later, but she'd just collapsed on the spot and proved her mother's constant nagging over burning out right.

After fifty hours of avoiding sleep, Bree lost half as much research time on the floor of her bedroom while her parents carefully tucked a pillow under her head and attempted to move her to her beanbag.

* * *

 **Dyson Carx, 16, District 3**

 _Six years before the reaping_

Dyson didn't know why he hadn't thought of it sooner. They were all literally lying around the place and his parents made them all the time. How was he just now coming up with the idea?

He lifted one of the weights off the floor with a grin. It was dyed a neon green, a small _2_ on either side of the dumbbell. It was one of the starter weights most people considered a good stepping stone. The next level up from it was the neon yellow dumbbell set, which sat comfortably in the small case with the rest of the set. They were one of the few leftover from the production line, and once Dyson realised just how useful they were he pounced onto them.

His friends were due to come over in a few minutes, agreeing to meet and test the stuff out. Dyson knew how each one was meant to be used, but he always heard stories about how much safer it was to have exercise buddies. More than that, though, he still wanted to have someone witness the transformation he'd certainly make once he picked up a routine.

The doorbell of the Carx residence rang out through the house, and Dyson was quick to throw the dumbbells onto his bed and exit his room. There was plenty to show them, but only so many hours they could stay on a school night. Dyson breezed past his father and opened the door for the small trio waiting outside. Morgan, Diod and Pow all grinned at him as he hurried them inside, and soon enough Dyson was shutting his bedroom door behind him.

Morgan was the first to ask about the surprise Dyson had planned, and instead of replying he simply dropped a small, circular weight into her hands. Morgan dropped it immediately—and the loud thump was more than enough to get someone's attention outside of his room.

"Dyson?" Arete called through the door. Though only eight, Arete certainly knew how to call through doors and walls when she wanted someone's attention. "What was that sound?"

He'd honestly expected his mother or father to respond first, but he supposed his sister's room being right across from his made for quicker questionings from the girl. "Nothing!" he called back. "Mind your own business!"

" _Mom!_ " Arete immediately shrieked. Her footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving the group to their own devices.

Diod was the first to even comment on the weights, picking up the one Morgan dropped with raised brows. "This is the surprise?" he said blandly. Dyson scoffed at him.

"Duh."

"We already know your parents make these, though," Pow pointed out. "Dad's friends buy them sometimes."

Dyson gaped at Pow. He was the smartest of them all—Dyson didn't have to spell it out for _Pow_ , of all people, did he? "They're for us!" he groaned. He pulled the dumbbells off of his bed and began doing mock curls with the small weights. "We wanna be cool, right? What's cooler than being ripped as hell?"

His statement only impressed Diod. The taller boy scrambled over to his side, cheering at the idea. "Yes! All that crap about middle school sucking won't come true! Maybe they'll let me on the wrestling team."

"Think bigger, Diod," Dyson said with a grin. "You could be the wrestling team _star_."

"Do you even know any proper exercises with them?" Morgan scoffed. She looked at the case with the rest of the weights, her nose scrunching up as she read the numbers along them. "What if we break something?"

"I doubt it." Pow gave a small shrug. He turned around, grabbing for one of the textbooks Dyson had brought home from school. Pow didn't even ask to use a free page as he flipped through the bored doodles and unanswered questions. "I could probably draft us up a routine with these based on what we can do. Nothing cool, but a start."

Pow then began to write on the page at the very back of Dyson's textbook, finding himself too preoccupied to argue more about the matter. All that was left to sway was Morgan. It was easier said than done. Morgan was as stubborn as Dyson, and it was hard to beat her in a tussle whenever one broke out.

True to his expectations, Morgan turned to him with her arms crossed over her chest. She didn't look very impressed, probably on the verge of walking out to see what Arete was doing.

"Look," Dyson started. He scrunched up his face as he tried to think of something to say, anything to sway her. They tended to enjoy the same things—fights, being the best—but Morgan didn't always jump towards such vague ideas like Dyson did. "Who's someone you really, _really_ don't like?"

Morgan raised her brows at him. "Why?" she said slowly.

"Just answer the question. Geez."

She shrugged. "The Peacekeeper that patrols near my house is an asshole," Morgan told him. "He keeps harassing those two guys that live together. Pisses me off—they never do anything bad."

"They're married," Pow cut in.

"Right. The married men." Morgan jumped onto the bed beside Pow, sprawling out over the covers and groaning. She was starting to get bored. "What's your point, Dy?"

Dyson grinned at her. He bent down and did his best to lift as many of the weights into his arms as he could, though standing back up quickly posed a challenge.

"If you—" He briefly forgot how to breathe as his body fell forwards. "You use these—" Dyson dropped them altogether at the foot of his bed. Carrying them all at once was a mistake. "And you can kick his ass if he bothers those guys again. Being buff has more perks than popularity," he added with a smirk.

She gave him a scrutinising stare. As all this had unfolded Diod made himself busy using a few different dumbbells, loudly filling the silence with an obnoxious breathing routine. Dyson was so sure he'd convinced Morgan to give it a try with them, but if he hadn't then he'd have to bring out the big guns: The "it won't be the same if it isn't all of us" card. That always made someone in the group come around.

Morgan rolled over to her side, turning away from Dyson, and kicked out her legs with a loud growl.

"If I can't beat him up," she grumbled, "then I'm kicking your ass instead."

It was better than a no.

* * *

 **And that's Districts 3 and 10 done! Next up is District 12 and District 8, which I hope I can get out soon! Till then, I'll leave you with the CQ!**

 **CQ #3:** Do you think Aubrey has a shot at winning the Games? Why or why not?

 **See you all next time!**


	5. Tanith and Herbert, Lacey and Colbie

**We're back with another intro chapter! This time we've got the kids of Districts 12 and 8, two of which belonging to me. Herbert and Lacey were sent by the lovely** AmericanPi **and** cookiecastlequeen **! Thanks a bunch for them, and I hope I did them justice!**

* * *

 **04 - Tanith and Herbert, Lacey and Colbie**

 **Tanith Kohli, 18, District 12**

 _Nine months before the reaping_

"I'm sorry to do this, Tanith."

"It's okay."

"We really can't afford to house all of you," Furie went on. "Now that you're old enough, you can work and earn money yourself."

"I know."

"M—Maybe you'll even get lucky," Flint tried. "You're prettier than most Seam girls—some merchant boy might want to marry you!"

Tanith hummed as her three-month-old brother squirmed in her arms. "Probably not."

She knew their stay with the Kings was going to be temporary, especially after the extra tessera they'd had to take with six children under their roof. Tanith and her siblings were an unexpected, but necessary, surprise in their lives; and now that Tanith was eighteen—her birthday passing just yesterday—she was legally the guardian of her younger siblings. Just as her mother's will declared. Being kicked out with a teething baby and three other kids barely in their teens wasn't what she was worried about. She didn't really care about getting hitched to someone who had less of a chance of dying of starvation than she did. All Tanith really cared about was whether or not the dust had collected over time in their old shack and how long it would take to clean it all.

The twins emerged from their room with small bags packed—they had a penchant for stealing, Tanith knew, and at some point she'd find out they stole a jar of honey or seeds from the Kings' garden. Not that she'd complain. It put food on the table, at least, and their hearts were in the right place. Stephen dumped his bag on the floor with a huff while his brother hugged his own tightly to his chest.

"Just Grace?" Tanith asked. The sister in question shouted through the small house that she was just putting on her shoes—a gift the Kings had gotten her for her birthday this year. They weren't the fancy ones their own daughter owned, but it put a stop to the weekly glass checks Tanith used to watch their mother perform.

Stephen huffed again. "We should sell 'em while she sleeps and see how long they feed us," he grumbled to Max. His twin grinned almost menacingly, apparently sharing the sentiment.

"You're sure it's fine?" Furie tried again. Tanith looked back to her with raised brows, her expression still dull.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Tanith asked.

"It's just— Well, raising all four of your siblings will be difficult."

"Grace is almost fifteen," she said with a shrug. Baby Glenn squirmed some more, his face contorting as though he were about to start crying. "The twins are pretty resourceful, too."

Flint crossed his arms over his chest. "And you?"

She shrugged again. This time Glenn began to blubber and whimper. "Beggars can't be choosers."

Grace came bounding out of the bedroom then, her black flats polished and tied snugly around her feet. Her bag was slung over her shoulder, as was the bag with Glenn's clothes, and she looked absolutely frazzled. Out of all of them, she was the most excited to be going back to the shack.

"I—" she wheezed. Her siblings all watched as she bent over and caught her breath. "I have enough money from my birthday—" A cough. Grace really was the least athletic of the family. "For cake or bread."

As the twins let out a cheer and dragged her out the door, Tanith looked back to their temporary guardians and smiled. As much as she wanted to go home, she was glad they had taken the Kohli children in and took care of them until now. As experienced as she was dealing with kids the twins' age, babies were a whole new mystery to her. Raising said baby on her own so soon after her mother's death would've been even more difficult.

"Thanks for having us, Mr. and Mrs. King," she said earnestly. "Here's hoping you don't have to take my siblings in again any time soon."

It was a grim statement to leave them with, but to the Kings' credit they didn't immediately clamber after the Kohli children. Tanith let out a long, exhausted sigh as her feet moved in the direction of the Seam, leaving behind the market district at last. People there may have been better off than those in the Seam, but Tanith found her home had a certain charm to it. There really wasn't a solid way to word it out loud—she'd just stand in the thick of it, and the thought rushing through her mind would be, "Yes, this is where I belong. This is home."

Maybe knowing her place in the grand scheme of things was what comforted her. No need to search for a purpose when you knew your lot in life already. Saved a lot of stress, she had to admit.

Right now, the only mystery Tanith would have to solve was what would eventually make her bite the dust. She was eighteen now, so going out thanks to tetanus like her dad was possible. There was also the chance that she'd exhaust herself to death, seeing as her mother went the same way with three kids (and a fourth kicking around in her). Starvation was a pretty popular way to die as well, especially in the Seam—

"Tan!"

Grace tugged at her shirt, almost making Tanith drop Glenn. She let herself panic for a moment—but soon calmed down once Glenn was steady and apparently laughing over the brush with danger. Kids these days were becoming adrenalin junkies earlier and earlier, it seemed.

"Mm?" Tanith hummed. Grace sighed loudly, waving her other hand about and letting some of her birthday money jingle about.

"Cake. We have to get cake first." She nodded towards the path back the way they'd come from, where the bakery resided. Tanith wouldn't admit out loud that she'd forgotten about it for a second there. Max and Stephen would tease her relentlessly. "Can you carry it for us? I'll take Glenn."

"He's heavy," Tanith told her. Grace didn't look bothered by the statement. "Give the twins your bags so you don't drop him."

Max retorted that Tanith had already come close just now. Stephen mimicked her in a high-pitched, whiny voice. Regardless, they took Grace's bags and gave her a chance to hold Glenn. Tanith took the money from Grace, immediately heading in the direction of the bakery as her siblings resumed the walk to the Seam.

They wouldn't care what kind of cake Tanith got, considering it was a rarity in their diets. But she was going to make certain she got the best one Grace's money could buy for them.

* * *

 **Herbert Heath, 12, District 12**

 _One month before the reaping_

 _It's all your fault_.

He glowered down at the crib. At the parasite that replaced his spot in the room, where he used to sleep beside his parents. Norbert this, Norbert that. Ever since that _thing_ had been announced as a new member of the family, Herbert had suffered.

 _Your fault._

His parents had left him with no other choice. They'd known bringing home another kid would leave Herbert with less attention. They'd _known_ Herbert would lose everything if a baby entered the scene. Did they not understand how much Herbert craved their attention? How much he'd despise the parasite they'd grown and brought home? They had to, he thought. They were adults—adults knew almost everything.

 _It will always be your fault_.

Herbert lifted the infant out of the crib, careful not to make it cry or alert his parents. Deft hands carried the sleeping Norbert towards the kitchen—thankfully on the other side of their little house—and Herbert laughably found himself handling the vermin with as much care as a doting mother. It repulsed him.

They didn't have a lot of knives, but the ones the Heath family owned were still just big enough. Big enough to cut through flesh, even if accidentally. Big enough to use as a weapon.

Herbert grabbed for one of the knives, staring down its blade with an almost serene feeling in his chest. "It's not like Herbert will be a monster to his little brother," Hayes had joked during the pregnancy. "It's not like Herbert will hurt him." Hayes Heath was a fool for thinking it—Rachel, too—but Herbert would be lying if he said he didn't want their attention any less than he always did. And if he had to take matters into his own hands after they ignored every protest he'd made, then so be it.

The pest was looking up at him. Somehow Norbert had woken up, and somehow he'd remained calm at the sight of Herbert with a knife. Herbert stared down at him, numb, as the silence dragged on. The pest was mocking him, daring him to plunge the knife in its chest. _You don't have the guts_ , its gaze screamed. _You're too weak to do something like this_.

Herbert knew there was a word for what he did as he raised the knife and plunged it into Norbert's soft, weak skull. He was much too young to have heard it from adults in conversation, but he knew it existed. All actions had words to describe them; even the act of carrying the lifeless infant into the market district and dumping it where someone would, given time, find it. Maybe he could ask about it at school. Teachers would know, he reasoned. They'd know he did it, but they'd call him what he needed to know.

It was still a good while before the sun would come up. Herbert spent roughly half an hour outside, wiping the blood from the knife with some old rags, and then went back to his bed in the main room. Tomorrow night he'd be back with his parents. Tomorrow night he wouldn't have to glower at the parasite that had taken his place.

When morning came, though, Herbert was woken by screams.

" _Where's Norbert?_ " Rachel Thorne-Heath shrieked. It pulled Herbert from his comfortable sleep, leaving him disoriented and confused for a moment. Even as he padded out of bed and into the kitchen, where Hayes desperately tried to comfort his wife, Herbert couldn't figure out what the fuss was.

"Maybe he got out on his own and crawled around?" Hayes suggested weakly. Rachel threw her hands down on the flimsy table.

"He's only _a month old_!"

He didn't get why she was so distraught. If anything, Norbert was like a cuckoo bird to the family. Rachel may have loved him, but he was going to take, and take, and take. _Everything_ would've gone towards Norbert—and Herbert refused to let it happen. It was all supposed to go to himself, not some useless, blubbering vermin like Norbert.

Hayes ran his hands through his hair. "I'll go get the Peacekeepers and we'll—" He choked on his words. Norbert didn't deserve all this fuss, Herbert thought. "We'll find him, dear."

His father ran out without so much as a glance to Herbert. Indescribable amounts of rage began to flow through Herbert's veins. Hayes had _ignored_ him. Even when the little parasite was gone, Herbert didn't have his father's full attention.

Hands landed on his shoulders as Rachel did her best to calm herself down. Herbert looked up at her, still somewhat disoriented with sleep, but he could very clearly see the effort she was putting into keeping him from worrying. This was the attention he'd desired. This was the effort he'd wanted from his parents.

"Herbert, sweetie," Rachel wheezed. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, then cupped Herbert's cheek. _Yes… Keep your attention on me…_ "Did you see anyone come into the house last night? Or hear Norbert?"

And as quickly as his pride had swelled, Herbert's rage returned. _Your fault_ , he thought viciously to the corpse residing halfway across the market district. _Your fault, your fault._

Herbert shook his head, his expression a scowl that all but confessed the deed he'd committed. The warmth in Rachel's eyes faded; what replaced it was a slow, snail-paced mask of horror. She was still paying attention to only Herbert, though. Not a single peep about Norbert was heard as Herbert stared his mother down.

"I got rid of him," Herbert told her matter-of-factly.

"Y—" Rachel's jaw dropped. "You…"

"He kept taking you from me. None of you listened when I said I didn't want a brother. I _had_ to get rid of him!"

"Herbert…" He'd never seen his mother so pale. It served her right for ignoring him in favour of Norbert.

Even as Rachel shoved Herbert away from her, hands shaking like he'd scorched her, Herbert was still satisfied with his actions.

Even as Rachel screamed and cried in agony, calling Herbert a monster, Herbert was still the centre of her attention.

And, even as the Peacekeepers arrested him hours later to an onslaught of horrified Seam gazes, Herbert had successfully stolen all the attention back from Norbert.

* * *

 **Lacey Norris, 16, District 8**

 _One year, six months before the reaping_

Lacey had been hoping to be awoken by the sounds of familiar voices entering the room and the creaking of their front door. It was always something she hoped to hear, wished for on the daily for her own and her siblings' sakes. But, like every other morning she'd fallen asleep at the dining room table, bowls of food waiting at the two dusty seats tucked neatly under the counter, Lacey was startled back into consciousness by the sound of her alarm clock ringing with a shrill chime.

It was an old thing, mostly made from old factory parts and cogs, but it did its job. Lacey had bought it from the market after her hectic lifestyle began, and it had done wonders to make sure she never overslept or got her siblings into trouble because of her tardiness. Batteries were hard to come by, but its creator had installed a small solar panel that worked wonders to remedy that problem. All Lacey had to do was leave it by the window during the day, and it'd have enough power stored for later use at night. She flicked the small switch at its back, stopping the clock's ringing, and set it back on the table with a pained yawn.

Sleeping at the table was becoming a bad habit of hers, but she couldn't help wanting to be the first to say hello to her parents if they came home late. Lacey and her siblings barely got to see their parents nowadays. No one could blame her for wanting to see them the first chance she got.

Even without her parents, though, Lacey's morning would go on the way it normally did. She put the frying pan on the stove and cracked a few eggs into it, making quick work of the yolks and scrambling them. Penny was the first one awake, stumbling out of her bedroom with sleep still in her eyes. She had her small, handmade doll in the breast pocket of her pyjamas, and its head bobbed up and down as though in greeting when she plopped herself down on the nearest chair.

"Morning, Penny," Lacey said softly. Penny groaned tiredly. "Did you have a good sleep?"

"Mommy and Daddy didn't come back?"

Lacey hummed as she pushed the eggs around the pan. They were ready to just sit for a while, so she began setting up the oven for their toast and bacon. "That's okay," Lacey reassured her youngest sister. At six, Penny was remarkably accepting of her lack of parents during the month. Maybe it was because she was so used to Lacey taking care of her. "We'll have a nice lunch for school."

Bobbin and Sash came out then, Sash practically leaping into her chair while Bobbin calmly sat down next to his sister. They were all present now. Lacey smiled warmly at her siblings and one by one served them their breakfasts. Sash vocally took notice of the untouched bowls of stew at the end of the table, but she didn't speak much afterwards once her eggs and bacon were in front of her.

"Did you sleep out here again?" Bobbin asked. His voice came out as barely more than a mumble. Lacey was used to straining her ears in order to hear him.

"It's fine," she told him. Bobbin poked at some of his eggs with a doubtful expression. Lacey took her own seat at the table and cast a final glance at all her siblings, making sure they were happy with their food. "I promise I'll sleep in my room tonight. Okay?"

Their morning resumed as per usual. Penny clung to Lacey's nightgown while the twins took turns bathing and packing their bags, and Lacey set to work preparing their lunches and washing the dishes. Four little lunch bags were waiting on the counter of the kitchen by the time it was Lacey's turn to get ready, and all four siblings were out the door of their house by half-past eight. Their immediate neighbours were an elderly couple, one still working in the same factory their parents were employed at. The husband, suffering from a rather terrible case of paralysis in one of his legs, often saw the children off each morning while he let his dog outside for fresh air.

He waved to the Norris children, receiving a loud greeting in return from Sash and a yawn from Penny. Lacey let Penny walk with Bobbin and Sash, taking a quick detour along the old man's path and giving him a chipper, "Good morning!"

"Morning, Lace," he said. He made a move to stand, his old-fashioned manners always demanding he stand respectfully to shake a lady's hand, but Lacey quickly reassured him she wasn't going to take up much of his time. "Off to school?"

"Yeah. I was hoping I could ask a favour before I go, though," Lacey admitted. Mr. Henriks nodded, prompting her to go on. "Are you and Mrs. Henriks able to watch over my siblings tonight? I have a shift and I don't know if our parents will be home while I'm out."

Mr. Henriks let out a small chuckle. "The kids are always welcome at our house. Martha was just telling me the other day how much she hopes they like her cooking."

Lacey let out a relieved breath. "Thank you _so_ much, Mr. Henriks!"

"No problem at all, Lacey. Now, hurry after them before you miss the morning bell. Don't want you to be late because of me."

She thanked him again, making sure to stop when she passed his dog and gave it a pet on the head, before finally Lacey sprinted after her younger siblings. She didn't like troubling people with her favours, but the Henriks were very nice about it all. They adored Lacey's siblings and always made sure Lacey wasn't overworked by the time she came home. The twins would always be in bed, though maybe not entirely asleep, while Penny would be tucked in and cuddling her doll as though she never had a care in the world.

It was small, but it meant a lot to Lacey. Without their parents home often Lacey may have well have been their mother. With the added help from the Henriks, she never worried about burning out over her siblings.

* * *

 **Colbie Connelly, 16, District 8**

 _Eleven years before the reaping_

"Colbie, honey." Lilith frowned down at him, trying not to let her disappointment show. "You need to take your medicine."

"No!"

"Sweetheart, please—"

" _No!_ "

She'd been trying for the past three days to make Coco take the medicine. He was having none of it—it tasted weird and it always made him tired, and he didn't want to sleep all the time! Coc didn't care if his hands were always hurting and he couldn't do much with them. He just couldn't stand how the medicine affected him.

Alaric, his older brother, sat beside him on the bed with a frown on his face. That had been the way Coco's days were spent—being frowned at by his brother every time he refused to rest, even before he'd began refusing his medication. Alaric never said anything, but the look in the seven-year-old's eyes spoke levels of how much he worried for Coco. As though reaffirming this, Alaric wrapped an arm around Coco's shoulders and let out a small sigh.

"Your hands won't get better," Alaric told him. Coco pouted up at him. "The doctor said so, Coco."

Coc didn't care what the doctor said. He wasn't taking the darn medicine.

"Who am I gonna play with if your hands don't get better?" Alaric went on. "You need them for tag and hopscotch and ring-tossing."

"We can play other things," Coco huffed. Alaric just shook his head.

"We don't have anything else to play with."

As much as he hated to admit it, Coco probably was going to have to take his medicine for the sake of his hands. Ever since his wrists got caught in the machine at his dad's factory, things have been difficult and frustrating. Coco had to be fed by his parents for every meal like a baby, and he couldn't even dress himself. The times he tried caused him nothing but agony. He just wanted it all to end.

He sniffed and scrunched up his face. When he looked back to his mother, the bandages wrapped around both hands feeling tight all of a sudden, he was about ready to cry. Coco really hated the medicine—but it cost so much just for Lilith and Hugo to buy one lot of it. Coco pretended not to notice the lack of food on his mother and father's plates come dinner. He pretended like he wasn't aware of just how much he'd put the family out because of his mistake.

"Can you mix it in some milk, Mom?" he whimpered.

Lilith let out a relieved sigh and nodded. She screwed the cap back onto the bottle and walked out of the room without another word.

Alaric hugged him lightly as soon as Lilith was out of the room. "I'm proud of you, Coco," he said. "Mom and Dad are, too."

"No they aren't." Coco sniffed again. He could actually feel the snot forming as his eyes watered. "It's all my fault they don't get dinner. Dad got in trouble at work because of me, too."

There were a few seconds of silence between them. Coco wasn't sure why Alaric hesitated to answer, his brother's attention moving towards their bedroom door, but he didn't bother to ask about it. Coco just let himself cry, wailing at the top of his lungs and wiping at his face over and over with his forearms.

What if he never got better? What if he had to have his hands cut off like the old lady that begged outside of the Justice Building? Coco didn't want to lose his hands! He wanted to make it up to his parents for his accident and let them eat all they wanted!

Footsteps entered the room again, and Coco pushed himself away from Alaric in a final attempt to wipe his face. His hands ached at the movement, eliciting more sobs and wails, but whoever entered didn't seem to care. Hugo Connelly simply sat himself on Coco's other side, a hand landing on his small head and petting it softly. Lilith came back through the door mere seconds after, a glass of milk in her hands and a sad smile on her face.

She helped Coco drink it all, and soon enough he was being tucked into bed as he waited for the fatigue to set in. All of his family was by his side as Coco sobbed up at them, too distraught for words. His dad was in trouble because of him, his mom was unable to eat because of him, and his brother was constantly having to take care of him because of his mistake.

Hugo kneeled down at the edge of the bed and lightly patted Coco's arm. He didn't look angry. He looked the farthest from angry Coco had ever seen him.

"Baby steps, kiddo," Hugo whispered. "You'll be back to normal in no time, and we'll be waiting for you as long as you need us to."

Coco's eyelids began to droop, too heavy to support with how much he'd cried and the medicine kicking in. It always worked fast. He hated that about it almost as much as he hated the fatigue. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"No apologies. Just rest up for a while."

And he did. Coco's family disappeared from sight, his room replaced with a hazy memory posing as a dream. The steam of the factory and the grinding of the machines. The feeling of his father's hand holding his own as Hugo had given him a tour.

All too soon did his dream become a nightmare, the warmth of his father's hand replaced by the burning of hot metal clamping around his wrists and pulling his bones apart one by one. His joints screamed almost as loud as Coco did. The adults ran towards him all too slowly, the factory crumbling away as only the machine, now spewing blood— _Coco's blood_ —finally snapped his hands backwards.

If Coco had any kind of lucidity to this dream, he'd have been able to scream for his family to wake him from the nightmare.

* * *

 **And that's the second set of intros done! After this will be D4 and D1, in that order, which will feature a whopping THREE potential victors! Until it comes out, though, how about our CQ?**

 **CQ#4:** Between Tanith and Coco, who do you think will struggle more during the Games?

 **Bit of an odd question, but I think it's a good one considering they both have struggles that'll get in their ways. I hope to get the next chapter done soon, but before then I'll be working on getting a little closer to the Games in Ad Mortem! Let me know what you think, and I'll see you all next time!**


	6. Bo and Selkie, Zelda and Tyrion

**Sorry it took a while for the next intro to come out! Been suffering from a bit of writer's block, but hopefully it won't stay forever :P For now though, we have three more potential victors! Great big thank you to** AmericanPi **for sending in Zelda!**

 **ALSO! General warning for implied abuse in two sections (Selkie and Ty's), as well as transphobia in Selkie's section! If that makes you uncomfortable, you're more than welcome to skip and I'll summarise their sections in a PM for you!**

* * *

 **05 - Bo and Selkie, Zelda and Tyrion**

 **Bo Stellar, 17, District 4**

 _Three weeks before the reaping_

She grinned down at her paper, at the grade at the top right corner. A perfect report, a perfect grade—the highest of them all.

"As per usual," Mr. Yanovich announced, "Miss Stellar has given me an astounding report on the importance of certain weapons and fighting styles."

The man turned around and began to white on the chalkboard, continuing on that due to how close the reapings were, no more homework was due until after the day. A few students let out relieved breaths, sinking into their seats, while some—like Bo—frowned. Three weeks was a long time to go without any homework…

"I'm sure you're all eager to prove yourselves one last time to the trainers," Mr. Yanovich said. A few students agreed with soft mumbles. "Just remember that brute force isn't the only thing that will impress them. There's a reason children under fifteen have made it into the ranks of the careers in the past."

Bo sucked in a deep breath. She was among the students who hoped to get the spot to volunteer, to prove their worth in the arena. She wasn't the most physically powerful student, but her intelligence was right up there with her tenacity and motivation. Bo liked to think she had a chance, even if the burlier students proved hefty competition.

Class was dismissed soon after with a final good luck to all twenty of them. Bo was quickly joined by friends in her class as she exited, caught in the middle of the Academy's large student body in the hall. It was always a tight fit, but Bo liked to think it was good practice for manoeuvrability. If she couldn't weave her way through a school hall of students, what was the point of even studying as hard as she could to volunteer?

At least it wasn't as bad as One and Two's Academies, she reminded herself.

Kai read over her report, one arm linked around Bo's, as they finally made it to the cafeteria. Everyone was taking their usual spots, munching on the healthy options the staff always provided. Bo led Kai over to their table in the middle of the room and let him take a seat; once he was settled and had both of their bags between his feet, Bo made a beeline for the lunch line. She and Kai always got the same lunch every day, too content with their preferences to bother experimenting with flavours. At this point the staff knew it too, and the egg salad rolls were pushed her way without a word from the woman on duty.

Bo was already digging into hers as she sat back down with Kai, who'd been joined by two other students they knew.

"Where do you even keep all those big words?" Kai slid the essay back to her while Bo chucked him his roll. "Seriously, 'constituent'?"

"It means 'essential'." Bo took a large bite of her roll as one of the other students snatched the paper.

"Disceptation," she read aloud. "Avail—"

" _That_ ," Bo jumped in, "is a word you should all actually know by now."

May pouted. She passed the paper onto her cousin, who began reading with a snort.

"We're careers," she insisted. "We don't need to know big words."

"It's five letters—"

"Five _fancy_ letters." May shook her head and sipped at her juice. "I hope you're not relying on just your words to get the volunteer spot. People like me would snap you in half in a second."

Bo chewed thoughtfully at the statement, well aware that brains weren't the only thing to ensure a successful volunteer. It was why she always looked for ways to apply her knowledge in mock fights rather than follow the same brute force mentality others shared. Mr. Yanovich said it himself—kids under fifteen made it into the ranks of the careers without brute force.

With a shrug, Bo finished off her roll. "I'll manage," she said with her mouth full.

"A lot can happen in three weeks," Cliff said. He slid the paper back to Bo, an almost knowing smile on his face. "Most volunteer prerequisites include good grades in theory classes."

"So May can just give up now," Kai snorted. May smacked his arm and sneered.

If Bo had to rank their small group by desperation to volunteer before they turned eighteen, May would take the top spot. All of her older siblings were hopefuls for the Games in the past years, outdone in the final rounds of elimination every time. May wanted to be the first to break the cycle and at least give the Games a try, to set a good example for her nieces and nephews when the future came around.

After May would be Bo. Bo wasn't competitive about it like May was, though. Bo was just… Curious was probably a good word to use. She didn't want to set out to prove that intellectuals could win a Hunger Games—all of District Three's winners had done that already—but she didn't want to half-ass her attempts either. Unlike the trio in front of her, Bo had only attended the Academy for one year. She'd stayed in regular school up till this year, just barely getting her parents to agree to transfer her over for the top-tier education the Academy offered. And it was true: The Academy was leagues better than public school, the library infinitely larger and the classes infinitely more engaging. The curiosity to see how far she would go if she tried for the Hunger Games was just a side effect of that transfer—a lethal side effect, but a moderately challenging one too.

Kai and Cliff tied for third place in their desire to compete. Kai was lazy by nature, always willing to let someone else have fun and just experience the successes through his friends. He liked teasing everyone who competed to volunteer, his sights set on taking over his family's business once he graduated. Cliff, on the other hand, probably saw it as trivial. Growing up with someone like May would most likely have that effect on someone—after all, Bo was already tired of all the ways May tried to compete with her each day in class. Cliff just egged his cousin on and watched from the sidelines with a smirk, amused by the wild goose chase that was a spot to volunteer.

That being said, at least they were supportive at the end of the day. Bo would never have managed to keep her grades so high up and apply her quick thinking into practical classes if it weren't for the trio. May would probably have been an overeager outcast if not for Bo and the boys.

So with a soft smile, Bo winked at May and declared, "You'll get it this year, May. I know it."

* * *

 **Selkie Yanovich, 16, District 4**

 _Reaping Day_

Her cheek still stung, the tingling and heat almost unbearable. She didn't dare rub it again, scared he would see and strike her again. Weakness was bad. Showing it was worse.

It was days like this she wondered why she even bothered. Wondered why she didn't run away and try get adopted by a nicer family. A more accepting family. Selkie's life would be infinitely better if she did, no longer able to live in fear of her guardian and of herself. She'd be herself.

"Whatever little phase you're in," her father growled, his hand pinching her shoulder in an attempt to appear reassuring to the public, "you'd better keep it under wraps when you volunteer."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yes, Dad."

He pinched her shoulder harder. Selkie could feel the pins and needles settling into her elbow. "I'm Mr. Yanovich in public, to you."

"Yes, Mr. Yanovich," she corrected herself.

She didn't need to be reminded that he'd see her again when the goodbyes started. She didn't need to be reminded that he wouldn't hesitate to strike her again if she messed this up for him. He'd get in one good hit before the Peacekeepers would interfere, and who knew how much he'd destroy her in that split second?

He shoved her toward the line and disappeared among the parents waiting to see their children stand proudly at the Square. Everyone knew who would volunteer today, but it was apparently still a big thing to see your kid follow the rules with a smile.

The crushing weight of it all was horrific. She was volunteering, she was being scrutinised, she was scared of what her father would do if she messed this up even once. She didn't even notice the friends around her asking if she was okay when she stepped into the sixteens section. Selkie was panicking too much to even notice that the Treaty of Treason was being read aloud by the mayor.

Around her were the boys she'd competed against and eventually took down in their mock battles. Around her were pitying faces and knowing stares. They all knew what her father told her to do today—what the Academy told her to do today—and they all felt the same disgust that she did. For three years her father called it a phase, but phases stopped after some time. This wasn't a phase. It would never turn out to be a phase.

The escort took the stage and greeted everyone with a smile. Selkie desperately wanted to return it, if they happened to look her way, but she just couldn't muster it up. Her cheek wasn't the only thing feeling numb; no, now she was numb emotionally. She couldn't even feel excited over the fact that _she_ made it into the ranks of the careers. _She_ did it with her own abilities and prowess. It should've mattered more, should've made her happier, but all these opinions from her betters squashed the celebration like a bug.

"Let's start with the girls!" the escort announced. They bounced over to the bowl to their left, plucking the paper atop the rest and popping it open. "Hailey Barron?"

"I volunteer!"

The girl that walked the steps was willowy and attractive, her long brown hair clipped out of her face and bouncing around her shoulders. She was everything Selkie wanted to be, but couldn't. Right down to her checkered dress and shiny black Mary Janes.

"Excellent, excellent! And what's your name, young miss?"

The girl took the microphone and smiled bashfully out to the crowd. "My name's Bo Stellar. I'm seventeen years old, and I promise to do my best!"

Selkie stared up at Bo blankly. God, how she wished she were more like Bo.

"And now for the boys!" The escort reached in deep this time, pulling out their hand a whole thirty seconds later. Selkie sucked in a deep breath. It was now or never. Do her duty, or face the consequences. "Matthias Black?"

 _Now, you fool_.

She raised her hand and screamed, "I volunteer!"

The walk to the stage was filled with a trainwreck of conflicting thoughts. A small, rebellious side of her was begging to defy her father, her trainers, and to just say her name like she wanted to. The larger, more fearful side was screaming and crying for her to not risk it—she didn't know how far her father would take the punishment, even if the Peacekeepers would interfere. Selkie's hands were shaking as she walked up the steps.

Weakness was bad _. But you're only human_.

Talking like a girl was bad. _But you are a girl_.

Saying the name you wanted was bad. _But it is your name_.

"Come closer, young sir," the escort cheered. Selkie stumbled forward. Her eyes were stinging, the numb feeling becoming more and more prevalent as she caught her father's eye in the crowd. "What might your name be?"

Selkie took the microphone and sucked in a deep breath. She hesitated, staring at her father and watching the way he signalled for her to say the name he wanted. She had every chance to say it now, to tell the world the person they thought she was was no more.

"My name…" _Say Selkie._ "I—It's…" _Say Selkie, you idiot._ "M—My name is—" _SELKIE_.

She was well and truly crying as she choked out, "My name is Marshall Yanovich."

* * *

 **Zelda Dougherty, 18, District 1**

 _Two days before the reaping_

"You don't have to keep training, you know."

She jabbed the dummy in the gut, dragging the sword along the seams. If this were a person, their intestines would've been spilling out.

"I do," Zelda grunted. She whirled on her heel and flung the sword like a javelin at the dummy across the room. A solid strike to the shoulder.

Zircon hummed at the sight of his younger sister. He shrugged off his jacket, properly stretching his arms and legs as he continued to watch her. It was obvious he was going to join in, even if he was officially done with work for the day.

"Nervous?" he asked.

Zelda huffed out a small, incredulous laugh. "Never."

The siblings turned to look at each other. It was the first time since she was chosen to volunteer that they'd gotten alone time. Zelda couldn't help smiling at his willingness to keep her company and help train.

"You've got a lot of pressure on you from the District," Zircon went on. He dipped down to touch his toes, holding the position for a few seconds, before gracefully standing straight up again. "It's okay to be nervous."

"I quite like it." She walked over to the dummy she'd lodged the sword into. With a solid, strong yank she pulled it out and flicked the threads and fluff off of the blade. "Helps me keep my focus."

Zircon let out a dubious sound as he made his way over to her. He wasn't one to press or goad an answer he wanted out of Zelda, willing to accept her words as truth unless he knew she was truly bothered by something. Though they were both busy nowadays with training and schooling, they still knew each other better than anyone else.

The sparring match was short and sweet, Zircon going over the basics with Zelda and Zelda breezing through them with the natural grace and talent expected of a Dougherty. It was always good to go over the basics every now and then, to keep in mind what everything takes its roots from, and Zircon always made sure to remind everyone of this during his own tutoring sessions. Zelda wasn't the only one who got lessons from him—but sometimes it felt like she was the one who appreciated them the most, realising the true weight of the instructions and the importance of them in the Hunger Games.

The match ended with Zelda winding Zircon, striking his diaphragm with a well-placed punch and a cautious guard. Zircon expressed his pride in Zelda's progress (even if he was a wheezing mess as he did so) and told her, "Mom and Grandma are gonna be proud."

Zelda smirked at him. "Of course they will," she declared. Because after all, Zelda was a Dougherty. And Doughertys were destined for greatness in the Games.

A clap sounded out through the training room, startling the siblings as they whirled around to face the doors. It was well after hours for the Academy to have any students hanging behind, and most of the teachers were busy sorting through work to be done once the Games concluded. Zelda half-expected it to be her disappointing chosen partner standing there, dryly congratulating her, but it wasn't. To her surprise (and, dare she say, relief) she was met with the sight of one Rosalina Blue smiling back at her.

Like Zelda, Rosalina was graceful and mature. Both worked hard to get where they were now and it was no surprise that Rosalina was a shoe-in for a volunteer next year. Rosalina waltzed into the training room and gave Zircon a polite greeting. She turned her attention immediately back to Zelda, though, and began beaming at her as she rocked back and forth on her feet.

"Mind if I steal you away for some last minute cramming?" Rosalina asked with a wink. Zelda let out a small, breathy chuckle.

"I wanted to hit the books before I left anyway." She waved curtly to Zircon, receiving one in return, before she followed Rosalina out of the room.

Rosalina was quick to jump into a conversation with Zelda, filling the silence on their way to the library. "Have you heard from Link lately?" she asked. There seemed to be something more in her tone, but Zelda couldn't place what. Was Rosalina hiding something?

"No…?" she said slowly. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong." Rosalina waved a dismissive hand. Her posture seemed to relax somewhat, her expression becoming less guarded. "He must've decided to wait until after you come back for it."

Zelda sighed deeply. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and sped up her pace. If Link needed help with something, why couldn't he ask her now? It wasn't like Zelda was going to be in and out of the arena within a few days—Zelda was probably going to be stuck in the arena for upwards of two weeks, and where would that leave Link and his problem?

"I can handle it now if it's urgent," Zelda said. Rosalina chuckled, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

"Sweetie, I think it's more Link resolving to wait for you to come back." She threw another wink at Zelda— _Oh_. She wasn't insinuating what Zelda thought she was, right? Before she had the chance to ask, Rosalina went on, "He'd probably get really upset if he found out I brought it up, too. Humour the hothead."

She rolled her eyes at the demand, but didn't comment further. She supposed she could wait until she came back home to answer Link's question—or hear him out or whatever it was he'd wanted to do when she came back. The sign above the library door caught their attention, directing them to their haven of information and strategising. Zelda often wondered if other careers appreciated such a place like she and Rosalina did, or if they took it for granted and relied on just brute strength.

"You have a strategy yet?" Rosalina asked as they entered. Zelda nodded, though she didn't go on to explain herself. It was better to keep her plan to herself in case something happened in the arena. A lot of things could go wrong in a Hunger Games' preparation. Rosalina let out an interested hum, smiling coyly. "Well, I'm sure it'll be worthy of the Dougherty name. I know for a fact you'll be putting on a good show."

Zelda couldn't help the small laugh she let out at that. Of course it would be a good show. Of course it would be worthy of her family's name. She was a Dougherty. Doughertys were destined for greatness in the Games.

Zelda was no exception.

* * *

 **Tyrion Lector, 18, District 1**

 _Two years before the reaping_

"In my defense," Ty hissed as the ice pack was pressed harshly onto his cheek, "you guys were doing a shit job of keeping the peace in the first place."

The Peacekeeper sitting in front of him didn't look too impressed. She scribbled down more notes onto her form, barely a strand of hair out of place and hardly a stain to be seen on her uniform. Ty was never one for Peacekeepers to begin with, but the paper-pushers of "The Force" always seemed to grate on his nerves. Maybe it was a proactive thing. Lord knew he'd prefer being thrown into the ring to prove his innocence through his fists rather than have some desk jockey silently judge him based on some lying liar's lie of a testimony.

Ty was almost impressed with himself. That was just shy of every variation of the word "liar" in a row.

"So, Mr. Lector," the Peacekeeper drawled as she looked over the medical report again, "you decided to assault an unsuspecting, unarmed man with a lacrosse stick, _then_ drag him outside to asphyxiate him with a garden hose, and _finally_ , once that proved unsatisfactory, beat him unconscious with your bare hands. All because we're 'doing a shit job at keeping the peace'?"

"Among other reasons. Are the handcuffs necessary, by the way?"

She just sighed heavily and pressed her hands against her face. It wasn't Ty's fault she'd been given a bullshit story before she'd talked to him. If they'd just listened to him when he said he had a proper reason to be so aggressive, there wouldn't be such a dilemma.

Az was already being questioned halfway across the room, uncuffed and covered in bruises along her throat and around her eye. Compared to Ty, who'd only had his cheekbone _possibly_ broken and his wrist jarred, Az had suffered the brunt of Aston's wrath. Ty pressed the ice pack to his cheek with a little more force; he should've gotten to their apartment sooner. He should've picked something better than a piss-poor lacrosse stick to smash Aston across the face with.

The Peacekeeper gave him a once-over as she returned to her paperwork, and even Ty could understand the silent order: Wait until your turn to talk. Waiting was what got him into this situation in the first place, he thought bitterly. He'd waited for Az to go through with breaking up with Aston. He'd waited for their parents to notice the bruises and offer help. He'd _waited_ for Aston to change his ways. In an ironic, moronic way, he'd even waited for the right moment to strike Aston down, sick and tired of waiting for everything else to happen. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to wait for now, when he was already at his limit and demanding people notice what Azure Lector had been suffering through.

More people entered the room—coming from the area poor, battered and bruised Aston was giving his side of the story—and immediately they made a beeline for Az. A scruffy man leaned down to ask Az something, and panic crossed Az's features as her eyes darted for Ty. Ty met her gaze before it tore away again, and for a moment he couldn't figure out why. Then the scruffy man looked over at Ty as well.

Ah. Az was trying not to tell him who'd assaulted Aston. She never did have the best poker face.

Up close he was scruffier than Ty could imagine. If he'd just shaved this morning, then the beard had grown back into a magnificent, shadowy stubble already; even the mane of curls he'd tried to style back with gel refused to stay down, leaving only the man's too-casual attire to make up for his rugged appearance. He stopped by the desk of the Peacekeeper and gave it a short knock.

"His turn," he grunted. The Peacekeeper nodded and looked to Ty. Another unspoken command: Follow this person.

The interrogation room was as Ty expected it to be—small, cold—and it didn't take long for his "interrogation" to start.

"I'll cut to the chase," the man said. "Why'd you do it?"

"Woman-beater," Ty spat. Bushy brows rose while heavy eyelids sagged. Clearly he wanted more details. "The asshole was hitting my sister. No one else wanted to do anything about it."

The man looked Ty up and down, his expression neutral. "And you did it all by yourself?"

Ty shrugged. "Someone had to."

Instead of a tongue lashing or a lecture or even a small reprimand, Ty was subject to the sight of the man pulling a notepad out of his pocket and clicking open a pen. He scribbled a few things down, too far for Ty to see, before finally glancing back over at the teen.

"It's Tyrion Lector, right?" he asked. Ty nodded. "And you're… What, seventeen?"

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen," he repeated under his breath. He scribbled the details down hurriedly. "I don't think I've seen your name on the Academy rosters."

Ty stared at him blankly. Why was the Academy being brought up?

"Because I'm not a student there. Didn't want to aim for a volunteer spot." Ty leaned forward in his seat, mindful of the handcuffs that may irritate his jarred wrist if he pushes them against the table. "Why the—"

"I'll be frank with you, Tyrion: You've got a talent for beating the shit out of someone." The man pocketed the notepad and set the pen down on the table, leaving it clicked open. Ty stared at it as the man went on, "There's no such thing as a shortage of students at the Academy, but there is a shortage of kids with raw power to back up their ambitions. My wife's a trainer at the Academy and she's not looking too hopeful with the potential tributes being trained over the next few years. If she were to find out there was a perfectly fine candidate at risk of being punished for acting justly…"

...then Tyrion would have someone fighting tooth and nail for him to be bailed out. Ty felt the air rush out of his lungs as he looked back up at the man. Was this legal? He knew Peacekeepers could be corrupt at times, but where did this fall on the legal-corrupt scale? What would happen if someone found out about it? How messed up would Az's life become if Aston tried to fight against the decision? It wasn't like restraining orders were—

Ty sucked in a deep breath. "You scratch my back, I scratch yours," he declared. The scruffy man raised a brow, amused. "If I go to the Academy and try to become a volunteer, then you have to keep that scum away from my sister. I don't care how you do it—but I won't set foot in that Academy until he's gone."

And like that, Ty's handcuffs were removed. He was left alone in the interrogation room, the scruffy man throwing at wink at him over his shoulder as he left, and the weight on Ty's shoulders seemed to drop all at once.

He had not only gotten away with aggravated assault, but had also been rewarded for it. Karma really worked in strange ways.

* * *

 **Welp, that's 4 and 1 done! Next chapter will be D2/D11, so I'll see you all there! For now, we have our next CQ!**

 **CQ#5:** Which career caught your interest in this intro and why?

 **Till next time!**


	7. Farrah and Marc, Maybell and Reynard

**Another Aeturnum chapter! This one took a while to get out since I've been busy with school and health stuff, but after this we only have two more intros to go!**

 **No warnings this time unless the aftermath of murder viewed in a sort of inconveniencing way is a no-no for you, in which case I advise you don't read Rey's section. Otherwise, enjoy! Farrah, Maybell and Reynard were sent in my** mukkou **,** goldie031 **, and** palm-biitch **respectively!**

* * *

 **06 - Farrah and Marc, Maybell and Reynard**

 **Farrah Beatrix, 18, District 2**

 _One day before the reaping_

"Alright, what colour's the bacon now?"

Lilith hummed as she climbed the small stepladder that had been set up beside her sister. "Pink," the five-year-old decided.

"What's it mean when it's pink?" Farrah prompted her. She let her hand hover above the stovetop in front of her, feeling the heat rise from the pan she'd set down on one of the burners.

"Means it's raw."

Her hand landed atop Lilith's head, and Farrah gave it an affectionate pat. "Yep. Now keep an eye on the bacon."

It sizzled so loud that Farrah took a step backwards out of precaution. There was nothing worse than feeling the grease landing on her arm, peppering tiny, weak burns along her skin. But at least it wasn't as bad this morning, the heat of the frying pan just the right level to begin cooking the bacon without spraying everything back at her.

Heavy footsteps entered the room. Farrah barely turned to greet her father, throwing a soft, "Morning, Dad," at Hansh as he groaned into one of the dining room chairs.

"The bacon's starting to go all squiggly," Lilith noted. Farrah hummed, scraping the spatula along the frying pan and carefully flipping the bacon over. The resounding sizzle that came from the action was confirmation of a job well done. "Is it almost done?"

"Depends." Farrah jerked the frying pan a few times, shifting the bacon around. "You know what colour it's meant to be?"

Lilith hummed, mimicking her sister. "Red… Brown…?"

"Burgundy," Hansh mumbled. He didn't sound entirely awake yet.

"Burgundy," Farrah agreed.

The bacon sizzled some more as silence took over the kitchen. Farrah listened to Lilith lean back and forth on her ladder, to Hansh motivate himself for the start of the day. This was how their mornings tended to start—at least, that's what Farrah noticed lately. She'd wake up first, wandering around the house and doing odd tasks to fill time, and then Lilith would follow and demand breakfast. Hansh was always last, always struggling the most, and then there would only be silence as breakfast was finished off and Farrah left for the Academy.

Today was going to be different, though. Today was the aftermath of the news that Farrah would volunteer for the Hunger Games tomorrow. Today was the awkward song and dance that would be Hansh fussing over his eldest daughter more than normal.

Lilith declared the bacon cooked proper, and soon they were gathering at the table with their father. The only thing filling the silence was the scraping of knives and forks against the plates, cutting at the bacon and slicing through the bread that made up their breakfast sandwiches. Farrah didn't mind the silence all that much. If anything, it was the concern that rolled off Hansh in waves that left her unsteady.

After an eternity of simply eating in silence, Hansh said, "Are you sure about this?"

Farrah nodded without hesitation. She'd been sure about her choice since she'd qualified as a candidate. "Why wouldn't I be?" she fired back. It wasn't meant to sound defensive, more in jest, but the reflexive shell she'd built around herself was beginning to show at such a small question.

"It's just…" Hansh sighed heavily. His fork dropped to his plate loudly, and Farrah flinched at the sound. "I _worry_ , Farrah. Volunteering is a big responsibility. Careers in the past haven't always been accommodating if they can't work in tandem."

He was dancing around the real issue. Maybe Hansh was still worried that Farrah struggled in the Academy. It'd been true for a while, but the respect the student body had for her practically skyrocketed during the eliminations for a female volunteer. What was there to worry about?

"Then I'll work on my own," she decided. "Or maybe Marc will team up with me. He's pretty unorthodox, too."

"But he's not—" Hansh growled to himself. "He isn't like you, Farrah."

She could've blown up at him for that. She had every right to, considering all she'd gone through to make it this far. But Farrah knew his intentions were good—Hansh genuinely worried for her, genuinely wanted her to be safe.

"Hey, Lil?" Farrah said softly. Lilith hummed around her food, clearly still chewing through it all at once. "When you finish eating, can you help me pick something to wear tomorrow?"

Lilith let out the loudest of gasps. Farrah was amazed she didn't immediately start choking on her food. Her plan to distract the younger girl worked wonders, though, because within the first minute of this request being made Lilith finished her food and ran down the hall.

Farrah set down her fork and leaned back in her chair. Hansh was silent as he waited for her to speak. She was grateful for his patience.

"I know you're worried, Dad," she started. "There's… There's a whole bunch of odds stacked against me outside of the Games. More so in them. But I like doing this—proving them wrong and showing that I'm not helpless. That being different—being a minority—doesn't have to be a bad thing. And Marc feels the same way. He may not suffer from the same problems, but when you get down to it he's been ridiculed for what makes him different, just like me. I think… I think if the careers don't want a smart young man with vitiligo and a confident young lady who happens to be blind, then it's their loss."

She shrugged.

"No harm in doing my best, right?" she added.

Lilith's voice echoed down the hall, announcing that she'd found a few dresses for Farrah to wear to the reaping tomorrow. Words of thanks were returned by Farrah, and then silence settled over the dining room once more.

A sigh came from Hansh. His chair creaked, the floor groaning as he walked over to Farrah's side. Strong arms wrapped around her, gentle hands holding her head to his chest.

"I know," he said, resignation in his voice. "I know, honey." He sniffed. "I'm proud of you for making it this far."

* * *

 **Marc Antonius, 15, District 2**

 _Five months, one week before the reaping_

It was hard to believe this was the same girl who'd been bullied over and over for her special needs. Marc sipped at his juicebox idly as he watched Farrah Beatrix beat yet another classmate in her sparring match, offering a playful smile to the air in front of her. That was pretty much the norm for most of her matches, outdoing her opponents with a cheeky grin that held silent apologies behind it.

Marc, on the other hand, wasn't quite as fortunate with his opponents. His ass had just been handed to him by one of the tougher boys in his class, and they were obnoxiously gloating about it as the fifteen-year-olds took their break. He really didn't mind it all _that_ much, used to being less skilled in some of the more physical departments compared to his peers. If anything it was annoying at times, otherwise remaining something that inspired indifference in Marc.

Today was no different.

"Just drop out already, zebra boy," one of the teens scoffed at him. Marc just kept his eyes on Farrah, conjuring theories as to how she accurately struck each of her opponents down. Her punches weren't sloppy, and she never put anyone in danger with accidental injuries. It was like she wasn't even blind to begin with. "Make room for someone with talent in the contest."

That was all their insults were reduced to nowadays. Marc used to hear all sorts of things when he first started attending at the tender age of twelve. They'd run their supply of rhetorts dry within the first month of meeting Marc, and now it was easy to brush off as something he'd heard before. They were uncreative and never came up with anything new to say to him—what was the point of getting heated?

Another opponent fell to Farrah. The trainer blew his whistle and yelled, "Point, Beatrix! Next group!"

Marc heaved a sigh and watched as the girls made their ways over to the bleachers. Farrah was instantly crowded by her peers, complimenting her skills and form, while Marc was left to clear his seat for one of them. The boys were done with their rest, it seemed, and round two of the sparring had begun.

His first opponent was a sixteen-year-old named Aurav—held back a year because of his poor grades and footwork, if Marc remembered correctly. He readied his stance and waited patiently for the whistle to blow. As soon as it did, Marc took the more defensive route.

Aurav threw punch after punch, one after another successfully landing on Marc's shoulders and face as the smaller boy tried to jump away. His joints still hurt from the last round he'd gone through, bruises already aching under his skin. He didn't know why the boys in his year level targeted him so much, nor why they were so intent on making sure he dropped out by their own hands.

Aurav's foot dropped too close to Marc's, and Marc immediately hooked his toes around the taller boy's ankle. He yanked, forcing Aurav into a split, and jumped back to recover as Aurav dropped to the floor and screeched at the forced stretch the muscles in his groin underwent.

For the first time today, the trainer blew the whistle and yelled, "Point, Antonius!"

He moved up a level in the group, for once not immediately sorted into the lowest skill level. Marc was both relieved and annoyed. Relieved, because now he could apply what he'd noticed about the other boys to their sparring; annoyed, because it meant the torment would probably escalate to keep him from feeling proud.

And it did.

Piu, the very student who'd told him to drop out earlier, was his next opponent. Marc wasn't quite as fortunate with this match, Piu having the skills to back up his cocky mannerisms.

At first Piu did the same as Marc, taking a defensive stance, and the two danced around each other. Marc inched forward, testing the waters, and Piu would inch back. Marc chewed his lip. He knew he wasn't going to win this match, nor was he particularly desiring victory. If anything Marc just wanted it to be over with and to go on with life, see what he really needed to improve with his hand-to-hand training instead of going along with his peers' goading.

Soon after Marc had reminded himself of his goals for today, Piu lunged with a speed only natural-born runners were capable of. One fist collided with Marc's gut, winding him, and then the heel of Piu's palm crashed against Marc's lowered head. Pain shot through his skull as he stumbled backwards. Piu followed relentlessly. It was more than obvious to Marc at this point that he really had no hope of moving up a level with Piu as his opponent, and he was oddly fine with the idea. He didn't want to stand out like the strong kids and have everyone flock around him, drawing the crowds wherever he went. Marc wanted to be silent in his success, average at best. Just good enough to get by, not bad enough to fall behind.

He wasn't sure why he felt so ambitious, though, as Piu reached for him again. Maybe he just needed to ease some tension, let off some steam. Marc wasn't really all that sure. But when Piu grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back within striking range, Marc took initiative. One hand latched onto Piu's wrist. He brought his entire free arm over Piu's elbow, and as Piu moved closer to try and get a strike in Marc twisted his arm. Piu bent backwards, his legs falling out underneath him, and Marc quickly dropped into a kneel as Piu's back collided with the floor.

Piu's arm was definitely dislocated, but it didn't stop him. One foot was flung up towards Marc's face, and all he could taste was rubber as the toe of Piu's sneakers hit him in the mouth. He released Piu and recoiled, and then all of a sudden Piu's good arm was around his throat and dragging him on the floor in a choke hold.

The trainer blew the whistle and declared, "Point, Holzman!"

Marc practically collapsed onto the bleachers with a groan. He absolutely hated these classes. Someone with tenacity, like Farrah and Piu, he could see succeeding in the Games. Himself? God, if plain training left him this sore and winded then what was the point?

* * *

 **Maybell Chaklai, 18, District 11**

 _Two weeks before the reaping_

This was bad…

Normally running to the bathroom first thing in the morning to hork was bad in general, considering Maybell had work to do during the day and couldn't afford to get a stomach bug or food poisoning. But considering her lifestyle, this was an extra, _extra_ bad omen.

Peach rubbed circles into Maybell's upper back softly. The blanket she'd brought from her bed was wrapped around her arms, loosely covering Maybell in her embrace.

"Easy, May," she whispered soothingly. Maybell heaved once more, the burn of acid wearing away at her throat. "Breathe…"

Maybell tried to tell her friend that she _was_ breathing, that she'd be dead if she didn't, but all that came out was a pitiful moan and a particularly loud dry heave.

This was one of the last things she needed, and Peach knew it just as well as Maybell did. In between heaves and coughs Maybell would lean her head on Peach's shoulder, hoping to reassure her best friend.

"It isn't you," Maybell wheezed to Peach as a lull arrived in her morning sickness. "You always make sure to use protection."

Tension eased away from Peach's shoulders. Despite all of Peach's efforts to try not impregnate anyone, the girl still worried endlessly over the idea of something going wrong; Maybell couldn't blame her, especially after all the trouble Peach had gone through just to feel accepted and comfortable among their little group. Maybell could laugh at that—"little," like there was less than thirty-eight people involved in their rendezvous. Peach wasn't the only trans girl in the group, either, which Maybell figured helped her best friend come out of her shell somewhat with the frequency of the orgies.

"I can ask if anyone else—" Peach tried. Maybell coughed and shook her head.

"No, no." She reached up and wiped some sweat from her brow. God, vomiting took a lot more energy than she expected. Maybell was about ready to crash for the day. "They'll figure it out. Let's just… Process of elimination?"

Peached chewed her lip. She shrugged, conceding to the plan, and wrapped the blanket around Maybell entirely. "Lemme run you a bath first. You're a bit of a mess right now."

Half an hour of waiting saw Maybell easing into a tub of warm water. A relaxed sigh escaped her before she could stop herself, and Peach wasted no time cleaning up the area around her toilet as Maybell let the water work its magic. Maybell's mind wandered as her hand pushed at the water in front of her, creating small waves that crashed against the edge of the tub. She would've felt this sooner if it'd been the second to last meetup—almost five weeks ago, she recalled—so it had to be someone from the most recent. Someone she slept with two weeks ago.

Peach settled down next to the tub and groaned. "Okay," she sighed. "Anyone off the top of your head?"

"Bentel," Maybell said immediately. How could she forget sleeping with him? Maybell appreciated everyone in the group being welcoming of her and willing to spend time with her, but Bentel was her favourite. He was a whole world away from her though—richer, safer, paler. Even if her wish came true and the soon-to-be human life getting comfy in her belly _was_ his, his parents would never approve of the duo. Hell, Maybell's parents wouldn't approve. "I always make sure to sleep with him."

"Who else?" Peach started counting on her fingers. "There's me, but I always use protection. Didn't Tammuz suck face with you last time?"

"Just that. I think there was Ceres, but I don't know if they're, y'know…"

Three fingers held up, and then a fourth joined. " _Soya_ ," Peach hissed. "I remember her giving you aftercare towards the end."

Ah, right. She'd spent time with Soya towards the end of the last session, though Maybell was probably too blissed out to remember all the details. That made a tentative four. Who else…?

Maybell clicked her fingers and pointed them to Peach, suddenly aware of two other potential contributors. "Thorne and Miller!"

That earned her a loud laugh from Peach. "The _twins_?" Peach wheezed. "God, that'll be fun if it's one of them. Don't twins have, like, the same DNA or something?"

Peach was met with a handful of water being splashed onto her face in response. For a brief moment they laughed about the scenario, wondering just how it would play out if both brothers knew about Maybell's condition. Miller and Thorne were competitive, and Maybell had no doubt they'd fight over even something as small as this. Her laughter soon died down, though, as the gravity of the situation finally set in.

Maybell was pregnant. She was impregnated by someone she slept with frequently at the orgies she'd started attending. _Her parents were going to kill her_.

She curled in on herself and heaved a sigh. Peach was thankfully silent, only offering a reassuring shoulder rub while Maybell mulled over her options. If she was lucky she wouldn't show for a good two months. That'd give her plenty of time to pick up extra shifts, put some money aside in case her parents actually kicked her out. She doubted it would be that drastic—Harman and Junie Chaklai weren't the sort to toss their child aside over a mistake—but there would definitely be some tension once she started to show. And then there was the issue of actually finding out who the other parent could be. As much as she hoped it was Bentel, who was the most compatible with Maybell of them all, the one-in-five chance was very concerning. She was always open about what she thought would be the best course of action, what she was okay with happening in the future, but she doubted most of the five potential parents would be as welcoming of the situation.

Even Maybell was having some trouble being welcoming of it. And that was saying a lot.

"May?" Peach said softly. Maybell wiped down her face with some water, hoping it would clear her head somewhat. "You okay?"

Maybell shrugged. There was no clear cut answer for such a simple question, and she was endlessly frustrated by this fact.

"I don't know," she said eventually. She could barely even look at Peach as she worried at her lip some more. "Can we just not tell anyone until we have to?"

Brown eyes stared down at her in silence. There was nothing negative in Peach's gaze—no, there was only sympathy and support, endless amounts of dedication to her best friend as the crisis slowly began to plant its doubts into her mind.

Peach pulled Maybell into an awkward hug, both girls leaning over the tub and attempting not to spill water anywhere along the floor. Maybell had already made a mess near the toilet earlier; the bathtub didn't need one as well. "Whatever you need, May," Peach reassured her. "Just say the word and I'm on it."

* * *

 **Reynard Faust, 18, District 11**

 _Three years before the reaping_

" _Son of a_ —" He slipped, toppling to the ground with a grunt. The body above him just pinned him to the ground as more blood was soaked into Rey's shirt. He kicked his legs out and growled, thankful for the rain that drowned out his voice. " _Come on!_ "

Rey had been lucky to slip out of the town unnoticed—with a body over his shoulder, no less—but now that he was out in the wilderness, where his secret garden resided, he was in a spot of trouble. The mud along the ground made for poor footing, and the dead body he was carrying was, quite frankly, _literal dead weight_ that held him back. Rey was honestly surprised he hadn't gone toppling back down the hill he'd just scaled, right into the arms of the Peacekeepers on patrol.

At least his bad luck had a limit.

"Better be worth it," Rey grunted to himself as he wiggled out from under the corpse. "Gonna… Gonna do _somethin'_ if it isn't!"

He really didn't have many options if this didn't work out. He'd tried a lot of things, did his best to get his hands on simpler stuff to help his garden, but he'd reached his wits end. If this didn't work, Rey wasn't sure what he'd do outside of begging for extra tessera for the next few years. He'd be pissed if it came to that, but what could he do? Time wasn't on his side for conventional methods.

He reached the small gate that signalled his garden's entrance, and Rey dumped the body just at the front with a wheeze. He was too goddamn underfed for this shit. What genius decided it was a good idea to make sure the outer Districts got funding equal to their Hunger Games victories? The hell were they gonna do when the population went to shit and they wound up without fruit and vegetables? How the hell were those fat assholes in the Capitol gonna get their nutrients then?

Whatever, he decided bitterly once his breath returned to him. It wasn't his problem. Right now all he cared about was making sure he and his mother had enough money to survive the next year—and this dead guy was hopefully just what he needed.

He took the body by the foot and dragged it through the gate. Rey found it easier to use the mud as a sort of lubricant, allowing the corpse to slide along the ground easily. Definitely less of a pain in his neck—literally—than carrying it. His garden was just a few dozen feet away, and then a whole new challenge would be brought up.

Rey collapsed to the ground at the midpoint. The rain was starting to let up, which meant he'd have an easier time for the next step in his plan. Maybe. He'd never really done wet-weather gardening before. The rain washed over him, rinsing some of the stranger's blood off of his skin, and for a moment Rey was thankful. He didn't think he had enough water at home to afford a proper bath, especially with how much he had to save his resources until he could confirm his theory. If Reynard Faust was anything when it came to what he had on hand, it was _careful_. He took the time to even drink some of the rain, quenching the minor thirst he'd gained on his way up the hill; by the time the rain was slowed to a light shower, Rey was back up on his feet and ready to start digging.

His garden was small but practical. One side was filled with small fungi he'd found, experimented with on various people's pets for the effects, while the other side had assorted herbs that the richer people in Eleven paid good money for. Rey charged less than the Capitol did for the same herbs—why wouldn't they take advantage of his back-alley sales? His only major problem with the garden was how _slow_ everything grew. He'd already had someone break into his house while his mother wasn't home, asking if he had any other mushrooms to sell, just last week!

(If Geraldine had been present, Rey's ass would've been grass. It was bad enough his legal jobs weren't paying enough to support them both. Add on the potential drug ring and eventual wanted posters and bounty? The woman would probably have a heart attack after giving Rey a taste of his own medicine.)

Peacekeepers tended to ignore this section of Eleven for the simple fact that some mutts from past Hunger Games had been released into the surrounding trees. They hadn't bothered to learn what they were repulsed by, what they required in order to be tamed—but Rey had. Fourteen and desperate to find a way to make more money, he'd been forced to learn in order to start his back-alley sales. The chimps that ate human flesh? They _loathed_ the smell of ivy, which left Rey to plant a barrier of ivy seeds around his garden and the path leading to it. The birds that mimicked loved ones to a disturbing, distressing degree? They had a taste for the inedible parts of fruits and vegetables, so Rey always brought apple seeds and rhubarb leaves with him to keep them quiet. The large dogs that resembled people, making anyone who looked them in the eyes sick to their stomachs? They were just territorial and required respect to be spared, so Rey bowed to them whenever he came by any, making a show of neither cowering away or picking a fight with them.

One of those dogs was by his garden, probably having heard his complaints and investigating. Rey was out of breath, but despite this he still made an effort to face the mutt and bow slowly to it. When he rose he saw a pair of hazel eyes closing, a wrinkled snout lowering until it touched the ground in a reply. The mutt wandered off, and Rey was left to his own devices.

His shovel was where he'd left it last. Dropping the body one last time, he joked, "Make yourself at home." There was no response. Of course there was no response. No one alive was ever around to appreciate his less self-deprecating humour.

The grave he dug wasn't the conventional six feet, but it was still deep enough for anyone who _happened_ to wander upon the garden to not see a bloated body trying to unearth itself. The roots of each plant would need to reach the flesh as well, Rey reminded himself as he began to cut away the corpse's clothes. That was the most important part. He pushed the body into the hole, wincing as he listened to the loud thump it let out, and then took a five minute breather.

Last resort. If this didn't work, nothing would. He'd have to convince his mother to try look for a better home, or just build one out here for them. The Peacekeepers would find them eventually, but by that point Geraldine would've died of natural causes and the junkies would've lost Rey's scent. Or he'd have to come clean, but that was the less desirable option of the two.

Rey began to dump the dirt back onto his fertilizer. He scattered some seeds in a row above the body, and with a final wheeze he made his way back out of the garden. If someone ever did try to investigate the area, they wouldn't see bloodied clothes in the garden. Rey balled up his shirt and the stranger's clothes as he left, and with a grunt he threw them as far as he could into the trees. Carnivorous chimps pounced on the fabrics, tearing them apart and lapping at the fresher blood that had yet to dry.

At least if this didn't work he still avoided getting arrested for murder. That was a plus.

* * *

 **D2 and D11 are done for intros! Now for our CQ:**

 **CQ#6:** How do you think Marc will fit in with the career pack, considering it's not quite his ambition?

 **I'll see you guys next time in D5 and D7!**


End file.
